


Tomorrow's Song

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Coming In Pants, First Time, Jealous Sherlock, Love Confessions, M/M, Mrs Hudson is a Matchmaker, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Repressed Sherlock, Sherlock's Violin, Slow Burn, So is Lestrade, Virgin Sherlock, basically all their friends, brief suicidal/self-harming thoughts, mentions of drug use, which is lucky because Sherlock needs a lot of help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 03:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10351659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: How can he think a relationship with me would be a good idea? I am the sort of person to take a break from my life and when I come back after two years, I expect to find it exactly as I left it. In reality I find it shattered to pieces.(I actually equate you with my life. When did I start doing that?)





	1. Eventide

**Author's Note:**

> [Translation into Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7021254) available by nightspell.
> 
> Thank you [shreylock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shreylock) and [thinkhappythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkhappythoughts) for the deductions! As usual, writing is a delight with you both hovering in the background.
> 
> And now this fic too has been polished with the help of Akhenaten's Mummy! Thank you so much for dedicating your time to my works, for wrecking your brain trying to explain the impossibilities of the English language, and for being a lovely friend.
> 
> A beautiful piano piece gave name to this fic: [Tomorrow's Song](https://open.spotify.com/track/3Cf47MOQsa3ijid90gr5Io) by Ólafur Arnalds.

“I think maybe I'll just drop by.”

“You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome.”

Stupid Mycroft. “No it isn't. Now, where is it.”

“Where's what?” Does he ever tire of himself I wonder.

“You know what.”

Anthea in the doorway, the thick fabric in her hands. She cocks her head, I cannot help a smile. Slide my arms into it; heavy on my shoulders, wraps perfectly around my figure. A stale smell; I will need to run it through London to make it alive again. Make London alive again, breathe it in (breathe us in).

Mycroft must see my childish sentiment towards this piece of clothing, but he does not comment on it. Bit sentimental himself in his older days, it seems.

“Welcome back, Mr Holmes”, Anthea says.

A contented sigh, chin up, no eye contact. Fingers on the standing collar.

I am back. I am Sherlock Holmes again.

I am entitled to be a bit sentimental on the day of my own resurrection.

***

London lies beneath me. Cold air against my freshly shaven cheeks, narrow my eyes in the wind, shield myself behind the collar and the scarf. (Being all mysterious with my cheekbones and turning my coat collar up so I look cool.)

London waits for me. (John, you do not have to wait any more.)

***

 _The Landmark_ opens its doors, my coat is lifted from my shoulders. My back is straight and I look stunning. (Cannot wait to see the look on your face.) Ward off a waiter with an easy deduction thrown his way (not to worry, John, I will make sure they do not disturb us, not tonight). The waiter runs away clutching his phone. (What would you have said to that: _Brilliant_?)

Stomach makes a funny turn when I think about how I will soon be done making amazing deductions without John telling me I am brilliant. (It has become dull and boring without you.)

(John, you will be so amazed when I tell you how I did it. You are going to love it.)

Another step, and there he is. ( _John._ ) Sitting at a table for two, nervously fingering his pocket, taking a sip from his glass. (You somehow look even more _John_ than in my head, despite that gruesome moustache.)

He has no idea I am here. He is there, concrete and palpable, and he thinks I do not even exist. Stomach turns uncomfortably, legs stop complying, making me halt, making me hesitate.

(I miss you more now than I ever did during those two years.) He is right there, it makes no sense to miss him. But I cannot make myself take another step forward.

(God, this appears to have become complicated.) Get in control of the situation.

I cannot simply walk up to him. What will I say? Why did I not think of something to say before I got here? Get in control. I will surprise him. He will laugh. (You always laugh.) Should take the tension away.

Bow-tie, glasses, fake moustache, menu. I feel good behind it all. Stomach does not stop fluttering in a distracting manner, but the armour is thicker now. No one will even notice my state of indistinguishable sentiment and soon we will laugh. (You will laugh and your face will be bright and will you touch me to make sure I am real?)

(Where?)

His voice is precisely the same. (My God, John, it is you, John, it is you.)

“Like a face from the past.” Take the glasses off. (Now, look at me, smile, I want to see your smile.)

John does not look. He lifts his glass. “Great. I'll have that one, please.” He downs his drink in one go.

Try again. “It is familiar, but with a quality of surprise.”

“Well, surprise me.”

Not once. Not once did he look at me. He is right there, yet it seems as though he is imprisoned. Nothing comes out, nothing comes in. (When did you become this guarded? Do you not recognise my voice?)

(I would recognise your voice anywhere, John.)

“Certainly endeavouring to, sir.” Walk away. Turn around.

The deduction is too fast for my conscious thought to keep up with, and I do not understand why it feels as though my chest is suddenly made of ice. I stare at the red velvet box John gets out of his pocket. The light catches in the diamond when he opens it, the flash of light piercing my eye like a needle even from this distance. (That hurts, John.)

The fancy restaurant. The nice clothes. The nervousness. Only one possible reason, really, stupid stupid not to get it until now.

John twists and turns the box on the table in front of him and I cannot breathe. Even when I understand why John made this particular dinner reservation, I still do not understand my bodily reaction. (What is happening, John; you are a doctor, why can I not breathe? I do not like it.)

Who is that chair meant for? They parade through my head; the doctor, the one with the spots, the one with the nose, the boring teacher, all of them, all of them, I hated all of them and I already hate whoever is going to sit her arse on that chair. (Why do you insist on dating, John, why did you choose all those insufferable women? Married life will suffocate you, you should ask me about this because I know you, John.)

(I am not jealous, I just know you better than any of those stupid girls will and you should ask me. I would tell you that you need the danger, the adrenalin, the adventure.)

(Me.)

He looks not only nervous, but scared. This is rushed. They have not known each other for long. He is telling himself he is sure, but he is not. (Damn it, John, wait for me to advise you on this! You cannot make decisions like this without me.) When a woman appears on the stairs he quickly grabs the box and puts it back in his pocket.

I am too late. Mycroft, the bastard, I will kill him. Why did he not stop this? John does not want this.

I try not to look at the woman too closely. My mind seems to have romanticised the memories a bit; I had forgotten the hateful dating and girlfriends business. I had forgotten how it made me feel as though someone was strangling me. I did not understand it; not why he did it nor why it made me want to shoot at the wall until it crumbled. I just knew I hated it. (Why are you doing this, John? Why rush? Why are you so determined at having the life of the ordinary and dull, when you are neither?)

This is horrible to watch. Do the two of them even like each other? The awkwardness of their conversation is frankly painful, which says something coming from a person whose every conversation is awkward. He cannot even say it, she presses him, he looks offended, she waves it off, no this is all wrong (stop this, John, if you cannot say it, you do not have to!).

She laughs at him. That is quite enough. She does not know John Watson (she does not get to have you).

I practically run back to the table, clutching a quickly stolen bottle of wine in both hands. I cut him off at the last minute.

I am out of my depth. Terribly.

His eyes land upon me ( _your eyes_ ) and in that moment it is impossible to laugh this away. I can see on his face how the earth quakes beneath him, and then it does for me too. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I swore not to get this involved. (I cannot help it, John, not with you.)

I feel my face go soft and I resent it (but I want you to see it, John, I want us to have this moment).

He looks at her. Makes sure she sees me too. And I understand; he sees me everywhere and he is tired of looking, hence the refusal to look at me even when he hears my voice. Panic is rising in my chest; the impact was far more severe than I estimated. (John, please smile, I cannot be the one putting that look on your face.)

“Well. Short version. Not dead.”

(Please smile. I need you to smile. Do you not see this is funny?)

No, I am wrong, I am the one who got it all wrong, stupid, stupid. This is not funny.

(The look on your face. This is not funny. Oh my god I am sorry John, do not look like that John, please just go back to being my John-)

She stammers beside me. Incoherent sentences directed at him, urging him to stay calm yet fuelling his-

Rage? Despair? Grief?

(You should be happy, John. Look at me with happiness and tell me I am brilliant, that is what we do, remember?)

Can it be that he does not remember?

(No, you do. _Do you have any idea what you have done_ , she hisses to me and I do not, I have no idea. Stupid, I am so stupid, John. You knew that already, you always forgave me for it, please forgive me this.)

His fist slams against the table and my face is strained and hurting. “Two years”, he whispers fiercely (and I _know_ , John, how can you be this thick? I kept talking to you even when you were away for days, you know I have not cared this way about anyone before in my life, how can you not deduce the extent of my grief for being without you for two years? My thoughts are a constant letter to you, never to be read by you because I can never afford anyone knowing just how deep this sentiment goes, because that sort of thing puts you in bomb vests and throws me off buildings).

 _Grieve_. (I let you grieve.) (But I knew I would come back, John, do you not see this is a good thing?) “How could you do that?”

( _To save you._ ) I cannot get the words out of my mouth.

How severe is this? No, I cannot think like that. No, it will be like it always is – _was_ – he will yell and then giggle and all will be fine. Okay, possibly he will first hit me, then yell, and then giggle.

(Let us just skip the first two steps, yes?) “Are you really going to keep that?”

(John, you are really here, you are so good to look at, I like having my eyes on you-)

She disapproves of my joke. Well, she would not understand, would she.

Oh. He does not either.

He looks fierce when he grabs me, pushes me, my already weak legs just obey (I will comply with whatever you do to me John, I am hopelessly yours in a way that makes no sense whatsoever).

The impact on the floor awakens a network of pain across the skin of my back. John is on top of me, blind and furious. (I can feel you. I can feel me.)

***

He thinks I did it because I do not care. (Don't you see? My ridiculous _sentiment_ is what got us here in the first place.)

The cab drives away and it is dark and cold and empty here. Bleeding; nose is a mess, lower lip is cut open and the back of my shirt is soaked in blood under my jacket.

Sudden impulse to slam a text into my phone. ( _Two years, I stayed away from you to save your life. I may not be the most talented man at social conventions but this is no way to greet an old friend. SH_ )

Swallow the anger. I have no right. He has every right. He has chosen. He chose her.

It was not a choice, of course. She gives him romance, emotional support, sex. I give him adventures and a poor friendship. The two should be able to exist at the same time, should they not? Maybe she is not that bad, maybe she will actually make him come around. (Maybe she can even make you move back in?)

(No, why would she do that? She wants you to herself, of course.) Maybe she can make him visit and help during cases and it will all be enough.

(John, that is not enough, I cannot sleep without you in the same building, I have tried for two years and it does not work-) No, it will be enough. Good, even; she will give him what I neither can nor want to give anyone, and he will be happy and content and not nag me about rib cages in the bath tub.

(Although I really want you to. I miss your nagging, I cannot live without your nagging, oh god this is downright embarrassing.)

It is not possible that I have lost him. Not after those lonely years of chasing and fighting and torture, all for him.

This feeling inside me makes no sense. I have been without him for two years. One more night should not matter, and him riding a cab with a soon-to-be fiancée should not make any difference. (Make it stop. John.)

***

“Oh you bastard.”

Lestrade does not hit me to ensure I am flesh and blood; he hugs me. Awkwardly, one arm hard around my neck. Tedious sentiment, but at least this act does not open the cuts on my back.

Ha, I knew he had not managed very well without me. Perhaps he even considers me something like a friend. Perhaps I am?

No; he _is_ a friend. Does not mean I want him to hug me or particularly enjoy it. (Why did you not?)

***

I never let her dust. So she did not. Even when I was dead. Remarkably reliable. Now she tries to apologise for it.

“Don't be ridiculous”, I tell her. Then I cough, dust in my airways. She looks worried, but I wave her away. She is not my housekeeper.

She has not changed. (Not like you; the moustache, the new lines, the sad eyes.) At least some people have the decency to stay the same. (I never thought you would move out. It did not occur to me once.) Mrs Hudson's familiar presence is reassuring.

(Why are _you_ the only one who has really changed? It is not fair.) (Must find out how to change you back.)

The skull is still on the mantelpiece. In a rush of vain hope I check my old hiding places, but of course there is nothing here. No relief to be promised tonight.

When I find my violin I almost cry with gratitude. What has gotten into me, I would never hear the end of it if Mycroft knew. When did he grow so soft, anyway, that he put it here before my return. He must have known how desperately I would need it. _It is just possible that you won't be welcome._

I hate this. I hate using the violin as a substitute for the cocaine; they both make me feel alive, but the violin also makes me feel _real_. And I do not want to. I want to be lost. No point in me being here on this particular night. No point in this feeling in my stomach.

Well, I will do anything to ease it away, and to not think and analyse it and inevitably settle upon words like _disappointed_ , _sad_ , _jealous_. Even less words like _desperate_. (Let's pretend I did not already think them, John. Pretend you did not hear that.)

(Well, you did not. You do not know and maybe you would not even care.)

End this now, please. I open the box and stroke the wood. I love the smell, it smells the same as ever. My violin waited for me and it is the only thing in this world I would ever admit to loving.

I do not understand love. But when it comes to my violin, I sometimes think I do.

The movements of my arms, hands, fingers, torso, are a relief. Like an extension of breathing. Try to keep it light, not to pour my secret sentiment into the wood. Play the most challenging pieces I can think of to keep my head busy with the music.

It works. It only takes a couple of minutes and all of me has melted together; body, mind, violin, bow.

Close my eyes, let go. The bow strokes upon all that is me, aching to express all the things I will never let anyone see. I know John has heard this from time to time, I know he awakens when I play at night and he hears me. (Did you understand what it was that you heard? Did you know that was _me_ , unguarded, vulnerable – do you realise that is what I am really like?)

No one has ever guessed, to my knowledge. They assume the music is just mathematics to me like everything else is. The perfect disguise.

The lightness is gone, the music is aching. Put all the pain in it and it makes me able to breathe. I remember now how much better this is than cocaine. I should not think like that, because this is dangerous, emotions have always led to dangerous consequences, but I cannot help it. The violin in my arms is the comfort I never let a human being give me (not that you have ever tried, really). It allows me to feel the pain and somehow feel safe. For now.

Keep playing, keep playing, hoping it will be like crying in the end; hoping relief will remain when I stop. Play for hours without ever lowering the instrument, until the music turns into something I have never heard before. The piece writes itself, finished and certain already at the first play through. I play it over and over.

(I wish you were here to hear this. I want you to see me, the real me. I would never let you, but I want you to.)

The front door opens and closes; Mrs Hudson is up late. Play the piece once more before I slowly end it, my bow light and swift upon the strings at the end, making the last note so soft it is barely audible. Lift the bow, freeze in that position, keep my eyes closed.

Stillness. Peace.

And then everything is tense and hard and brutal again as I hear steps on the stairs. Put my violin back in the case as fast as I can, preparing myself for fight, the instincts I developed during the years of chasing fighting torture immediately activated. Then I recognise the steps. ( _John._ )

Glance at the window, concluding by the light that I have been playing quite a bit longer than I thought. The time is approximately 3.15 am. (You came.)

Door slowly opens and I quickly turn to face it; I never got around to changing my clothes, only removed my jacket, and now the net of blood must be quite visible against my white shirt. John stands in the doorway and I instinctively back further towards the window. I never turned the lights on, cannot see his face properly. I reach to my left, fumbling with the switch of the red lamp.

(You have not been sleeping at all this night. You have been lying beside her, completely still, determined not to face her. Then you gave up on sleeping and instead you have been pacing about for a bit. And before you took a cab here, you had a shave (why did you do that, does shaving calm your nerves? You constant mystery of a man).) The moustache is gone from his face, and the fury. Not the sadness, however. (John.) His eyes are damp. He looks defeated.

“Hey”, he says in a low voice. “Thought you might be awake.”

“Hello, John.” I keep still, unsure how to avoid angering him.

“That was beautiful”, he says.

(I love it when you say that.)

Try to put my armour back on, but the fact that he heard that last piece makes me feel oddly exposed.

Watch him warily, he stares back at me. I wait, and finally he chuckles (but you still do not look happy, please do not laugh without being happy). “I prepared this whole speech in the cab”, he says, “but I can't seem to do it now. That's what we're like, you and I, isn't it?”

“Perhaps, John. Yes.” (Best to agree, I think.)

“Look, Sherlock”, his voice trembles around my name, he fights to keep his words steady, “I am still furious with you. Do you hear me? I'm so fucking angry and I will not let it go, not now, not for a while probably. Maybe never. You have a hell of a lot to explain to me. But. Can we. Can we put that aside now? Just now. Can we- I need to-” He presses his eyelids together, curtly shaking his head. “Don't think I've forgotten or forgiven you. But can we not do that now?”

He opens his eyes again and I clear my throat.

“Of course, John.” (I cannot seem to stop saying your name.)

“I don't want to do this right now, but if there's anything I've learned in the past two years it's that there's no point in waiting for the right moment or whatever. I've… I've regretted this so much, even though I didn't know back when… when you were still alive. And I've been thinking that if you were here, if you were here right now I would tell you, no matter how inconvenient it was or how afraid I was or…” I try hard to follow the words tumbling out of him. “And now you're miraculously here and all I did was hit you, and I _really_ want to hit you again, Sherlock, but I was lying there next to Mary and I couldn't sleep and I just kept thinking, this is it. Because it is. If I'm gonna follow my own advice, it's now or bloody never. She is in our bed thinking I'm gonna propose at any moment, hell, she probably thinks we're already engaged. So I need to do this now. You need to let me do this, Sherlock.”

His eyes are piercing into mine and I have no idea what he is talking about. He stares at me, breaks the eye contact but keeps scanning my body as if he is looking for clues. I hope he has not become miraculously good at deductions during my absence.

“Sorry”, he sighs, “I feel like I'm talking to a ghost. Again.” He looks back into my eyes and hesitantly raises his right hand towards me. “Can I?”

Stare dumbly at his hand, then take a few cautious steps towards him, raise my own hand to take his. (You are cold. I am warm.) Watch his face as he looks at our hands, locked in a firm grip, and he lifts his other hand to put two fingers lightly against my wrist. I fight back a whimper (remembering last time you touched me there). He draws a shuddering breath as he takes my pulse, his shoulders tremble. (You remember it too. You have thought about it every day, like me. Just like me.)

“John.” The name falls over my lips, silent, hurtful. He does not look up, but he lets go of my hand and puts both of his on my arms, making a firm trail up towards my shoulders. He squeezes my upper arms before drawing me into a hug. My arms hang useless against my sides, his hands are gripping at the back of my shirt. His chest is hard against mine, his shoulders and neck so tense it must hurt. I feel his heart beating violently, and I feel my own banging against him like a drum. His chin rests on my shoulder and I hear his breathing in my ear, short and shallow.

I do not realise I should probably put my arms around him until he pulls back, pushing himself away with a hand on my chest. He does not step back far, his face is so close I can almost feel the warmth of his exhalations, and he stares into my eyes as his hand searches for the beats of my heart. When he finds them I feel his fingertips dig into my skin.

“Better?” I ask, my voice gone deep and soft in the night.

He nods, his eyes falling to my mouth. He slowly lifts his other hand again, in the same way you approach a shy animal hoping not to scare it away. (I am scared, John. Why am I scared?)

I try to breathe. (I trust you, John. You will make the bad things go away, will you not? You are John. My John does that.)

His fingers land lightly against my cheek, and he gently wipes his thumb just below my lower lip. I flinch and take a step back, his hands falling off me.

“Sorry. Does it still hurt?” he asks, still eyeing my lip.

“No”, I say in a flat voice, even though everything hurts. The skin where he touched me is burning. My body feels liquid and stiff all at the same time, the feeling of dozens of chemicals rushing in my blood. Chemicals I do not want to name.

It is easier when I choose the chemicals myself and put them in there. This I cannot control. It is ridiculous, it does not matter, my body does not know better than my mind. Better to just make it stop, somehow. (John, my John, make it stop. I cannot bear it.)

He looks up into my eyes. “I need to tell you something, Sherlock. Okay?”

I nod (just make this better, John).

“I know we don't usually do this. We don't talk, we don't say things. When you died my therapist asked me to say the things I wanted to tell you and never did, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't bear saying it out loud when you were never gonna hear it anyway. I told myself the only way I was gonna say it was to your face, and I went to your grave and asked you for one more miracle, I asked you to stop being dead.”

“I know. I was there.”

Watch him closely, waiting for him to be angered by this. Instead his face shows something like relief.

“And you did”, he says, barely audible. “And so I'm gonna say it. Just this once. I'm only gonna say it once, whether you want to hear it or not, because it's my last fucking chance and I will not miss it one more time.”

“Okay”, I say in a lack of a better response. (I had forgotten how difficult you are to read sometimes. Just when I think I have you completely worked out, you say something I would never have predicted. You are a mystery, John Watson.)

(My favourite puzzle.)

I feel slightly better, John's touch has faded away from my skin and his voice is soothing to hear. I trail his facial lines with my eyes, finding comfort in them.

He draws a shaky breath, looking at me helplessly. “The thing is”, he says in an unsteady voice, “that I have been in love with you ever since you cured my limp by taking me with you on a ridiculous chase through London. Which happens to have been the day after I bloody met you. I've never loved anyone like that before.” His voice almost turns to a whisper, but he makes an obvious effort to strengthen it. “And you drove me nuts all the time and you are infuriating and impossible and I love it, I even love arguing with you. And I didn't realise what it all meant until after you were gone, but the truth is I always looked at you that way.”

No no no no-

Everything is wrong. Everything is out of control. I was gone for too long and things have changed out of my control-

I have no idea how my facial expression looks but John carries on (Stop it).

“Sometimes I think you must have known, you must have noticed the way I looked at you even though I didn't let myself notice it, but then I think this may just be your biggest blind spot. You don't understand feelings like that and maybe it was for the best that I never understood it either. Maybe I would just have scared you away – you look pretty scared right now, let me tell you. But I hardly think it matters now, because you drove me away first and you don't get to dictate whether I can tell you this or not, and if it ruins our friendship it was probably already ruined anyway.”

Open my mouth in the brief pause, recognising this is probably where I should say something, but I am not lucky enough for something brilliant to escape me without me having to work it out. John does not wait for long before he continues. Close my eyes (please stop it, please).

“You know, sometimes I'm sure you were in love with me too. You probably didn't know, but… you've never felt that before, have you? So you wouldn't recognise it, that the way you treat me, what we were to each other… We were closer than some couples ever get and you flirted with me all the time, I don't know if you even knew. Now I obviously suspect I got this wrong, because who the fuck lets someone they love grieve their fake death for two years, but- but if you were and if you are-”

It is not until this point that John starts stammering. I hardly recognise this man, he never talks this much, he never talks like _this_. The words keep pouring out of him as if he cannot stop the flow he has started, eyes bright and demanding.

“Mary has been supporting me. She is clever and funny and we have a good time. It's the best relationship I've had with a woman and I suppose that's enough for us to marry. Because I know I will never love anyone the way I love you, Sherlock. It makes no sense for me to wait around for that to appear again, because it won't. That was my once-in-a-lifetime and I blew it, or so I thought when I'd watched you take your own life. Now I suppose you're the one who blew it. Doesn't really matter, does it. Because the thing is, even if I'll never be able to forgive you, there's nothing in this world I would rather do than spend the rest of my life with you.”

I open my mouth and to my great relief my voice is back.

“You can”, I tell him. “You can move back in. We can solve crimes together and…”

“You're missing the point”, he interrupts, his voice firm. His face is hard and does not match the next words he offers. “I love you. I want to marry you. I want to kiss you and touch you. I want to grow old with you. And if you can't give me that, I will get it from someone else, as I'd already decided to. I will propose properly to Mary and I will leave this all behind me. Christ, Ella was right – I didn’t think it would feel this good to say these things out loud.” He almost smiles. “If you want me, Sherlock, I am yours. I have always been yours. And if you don't, then this is when we can finally leave it behind us and move on.”

Silence.

“I don't… like those options.”

John watches me calmly. “No? What do you want then, Sherlock.”

“I want…” My tongue feels foreign and clumsy. “I want to go back to the way it was.”

“We can't. I'm sorry. You destroyed everything that ever was by jumping off that roof. I can never go back, Sherlock, and I will not pretend that I don't love you. Not even for you.”

I do not know what to say. (You would know what to say, but I cannot very well ask you now, can I? Surely that is not how these things work.) Eye him warily, trying to figure out how to make this smooth. I do not do smooth. (But I should, for you, because I am terrified out of my mind by the idea that you might disappear. That is not an option, John.) Look away slightly, open my mouth, raise my eyebrows in a way that I hope will take the edge off whatever I decide to say, but he recognises this face and holds up his hand.

“No, don't. Don't tell me.” He tries to conceal his hurt (but really, John, you must have anticipated this, I did not die and come back a new man, I am still the high-functioning sociopath you had the misfortune of calling your friend). “Not your area, married to your work, love is a chemical defect and dangerous disadvantage. High-functioning sociopath, that's what you're about to tell me. Yeah, I see it.” He chuckles, again with no humour or joy. “Can't say I wasn't warned.”

The unnamed chemicals in my blood rise to alarming levels and induce the feeling of me being torn in half. I watch him helplessly, overcome by an overwhelming urge to reach out my hand and take the pain away from his face. Somehow. I cannot do that, however, that is an irrational, stupid thought and I will not succumb to it. Why do people insist on following these irrational impulses, why engage in romantic entanglement when they always end up with that excruciating look on their faces in the end? I want to scoff at it but I cannot, because it is John standing in front of me in a million pieces.

“John”, I say helplessly (and it is so much more than a name when I say it, John, what does your name mean? Who are you and why do you have such a grip on me).

John shakes his head. “Really, Sherlock, it's fine. I should have known. I _did_ know, but, you know. Grief has a strange influence on memories. I remember now. This is what it is and always was. Don't worry about it.”

He makes a small movement towards the door.

“John”, I say again, desperate. I hardly recognise myself and I hate that feeling.

“I need to get back home”, he says, turning his head away. (I feel even worse when I do not even see your face.)

“When will you be back?” I sound utterly dumb.

He sighs without looking back at me. “I don't know. Truce is over. I may have to punch you if I see you again.”

If. (John.)

He walks out the door and closes it quietly behind him. (John.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This beautiful piece of music, written by the Swedish violinist Lisa Rydberg, is what inspired the Sherlock of this story. It's called [Om aftonen](https://open.spotify.com/track/5u6C4KPxrw6phPH6fJfF6m) which translates to "At Eventide". I imagine this is the one Sherlock composed on the night of his arrival to London. Give it a listen, and brace yourself for the rest of this story...


	2. Silence

I do not sleep. Maybe I will never sleep again.

I want to laugh. I want to scoff. I want to work and be absorbed by it, want to be grateful for the uncomplicated existence that lack of emotion offers. (But this is hardly what you can call lack of emotion, is it, John? You should see my insides right now.)

I am careful not to name the waves of _feelings_ going through me. But when they bit by bit settle on one particular, it is hard to ignore. It is not as though this one is a stranger to me.

_Self-loathing._

I made a mess of myself. (I made a mess of you.) I failed at the one thing I have fought my whole life to become. And I did not even notice (it slipped my mind how dependent on you I had become). And I should be glad to have repaired the damage.

But I fear it was too late. (I fear I cannot live without you now, stupid, stupid.)

I must have let my guard down, some time I did not notice. How could I let that happen? He must have seen something (have I been _flirting_ with you?) and it made him hope and now here I am pacing in my living room at five in the morning, once again with the heavy evidence in my hands; damning evidence showing how dangerous closeness is.

(How was I supposed to have done it? How do I keep my distance from you so you do not expect too much of me, and still be a good enough friend that you stay around?) Maybe I just should not have friends. I thought – I hoped – it was enough not to have lovers, but clearly I was wrong.

How can he think a relationship with me would be a good idea? I am the sort of person to take a break from my life and when I come back after two years, I expect to find it exactly as I left it. In reality I find it shattered to pieces. (I actually equate you with my life. When did I start doing that?)

He knows it now. He will not make the mistake again of believing me capable of emotion. That is good, that is… good.

But he said _if_.

 _Love. Marriage. Kissing. Touching. Growing old_ _with you_ _._ Did he really say those things? He knows I want none of it, he knows me.

I want to laugh. I want to scoff.

I do not even own a single cigarette.

***

(Maps of London. We are waiting for one of them to move.)

(Man gets into train carriage; at the next station it is empty. Oh I love a puzzle like this one, where did he go, John? Think.)

(Oh! One carriage is missing, of course John.)

(We should go there.)

I was hoping this case would be enough of a distraction that I would not notice he is not here helping me. I should have known the exact opposite was to be expected. (Do you know you are always with me when I solve cases, even after all this time? No, of course not. You believe me to be a sociopath.)

(Which is good, since I am.)

(The carriage is the bomb. A silly one with unnecessary lights all over it. You would feel alive if you were here now. Cannot imagine that Mary person makes you feel alive like that.)

(I sort of hope there will be no off switch. Then this will be over and you do not have to punch me any more. You can go back to grieve me in peace.)

(I am sorry, John.)

(Ugh, well. There is always an off switch.)

Visitor waiting for me when I get home. Apparently Britain's gratitude for my assistance does not stretch to freeing me of my brother's presence. I hate it when he comes to Baker Street, invading me; there is nowhere I can go. I do not even look at him when I enter the room, walk straight ahead to pick up my violin.

“That chair isn't for you”, I snarl and fall into my armchair, violin in front of my chest as a shield.

“Oh, of course”, Mycroft says with his insincere smile. “This is the chair of the cherished Doctor Watson. Forgive me my intrusion.” He makes no attempt to move.

(I hate his mouth around your name.)

“However”, he continues, “I am under the impression that John has not been serving you on this case. Shall I take it I was right?”

Bloody Mycroft knowing everything, cornering me so there is nothing left for me to say. I start plucking the strings, glaring at him.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to thank you on behalf of London. Hardly seems polite to ignore you when your efforts did prevent a quite serious terrorist attack.”

“For future reference, Mycroft, staying away from me is always the polite thing to do.”

“So that's why your doctor didn't join you, then?”

How dare he mock me about this? The only person more stupid than him is, of course, me, for caring too much, for making that caring so plainly obvious to everyone else.

“In all honesty, I must say I wasn't entirely sure about that particular deduction”, Mycroft says. “He did always seem very… _attached_ to you. I realise these two years have been straining for him, but I thought it possible that once you'd explained your reasons he would find it in himself to forgive you.”

“Didn't really get the chance”, I mutter.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in faked surprise. “So he doesn't know why you left? He doesn't know why you kept him in the dark? Sherlock, you really ought to tell him that.”

“Don't play stupid with me”, I spit. “You knew why he had those reservations at _The Landmark_ , how would I possibly be able to enter that situation having a decent conversation with him?”

“Yes, I suppose you timed that one rather badly”, Mycroft says, untroubled by the fact that he could have helped to prevent that catastrophe. “Although I assumed you told him when he entered your flat at three the next morning.”

I carefully avoid his eyes. “I didn't get the opportunity to speak then, either.” I pluck the strings.

I see him tilt his head from the corner of my eye and kick myself for not shutting up. His interest has awoken and he will now be able to deduce my whole conversation with John in a matter of seconds. I do not care to look up and see it dawn on him. I do hear his deep inhalation, however.

“Oh”, he says slowly. “Well, he surprises me, I must give him that. Didn't think he had the fortitude to actually tell you.”

I grit my teeth (he does not get to insult you).

“And I understand you did the right thing?” he asks in a light tone that does not fool me.

“You'd be proud.” My voice is rough with bitterness.

“I warned you from the beginning. You let him get too involved and it was only going to end in heartbreak. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

“Don't worry, I won't make that mistake again.”

“Well. If you are certain about your choice, I am certain it is for the best. Perhaps things will be simpler from now on.”

If I am certain? I look up at him. He watches me without expression.

This is not a choice, not really. I am Sherlock Holmes, I do not need to think it over or weigh my options. There is only one way and it is a certain as sunset. Mycroft knows this. He _taught me_ this.

“Yes”, I say and the word tastes bitter. (I do not want simple, I want you.) (No, what? I do not _want_ you, I just…) (Need my doctor. My blogger. Friend.)

Mycroft always knows everything. Please let him be right about this. Let everything be simpler. (My life will be simpler without you. That is what I am going to do.)

***

Bored. Bored. And a vague feeling of discomfort. Everything is fine, yet the universe has tilted slightly and everything is wrong.

(221B is like cold panic without you in it.) The air is too still, I cannot breathe it properly.

The quiet makes me uneasy and jumpy. I used to love quiet. Nothing here disturbs my thinking. Thinking has always been my breathing, since breathing is unbearably dull. Now I am tempted to proclaim _thinking_ dull and I am horrified by what I have become.

If I do not even want to _think_ any more, then what? What the hell is it that I want?

(The worst part is that I do know. I want you here. I want you to be here for eternity. Is it wrong of me to want that? Why can I not have that without obligations, without having to understand people and conform to their needs? Why can you not come back and we can be what we always were?)

(Probably because we never were that. I got it all wrong. Stupid stupid.)

Never again. I will be alone and it will be fine and I will learn to breathe the empty air of 221B.

(If I had seen the signs, if I had deduced how deeply we were entangled – would I have been able to walk away? At what point did I stop having a choice?)

(I know that, too. The moment you shot a cabbie for me.)

This is ridiculous. We can still be friends. He will come around, he always comes around. He has missed me, the two of us against the rest of the world…

As if that was the issue. I know he has missed me. _Love_ _m_ _arriage_ _k_ _issing_ _t_ _ouching_ _g_ _rowing old_ _with you._

But before I left he was able to pretend it was not like that. Things were fine. Air was breathable. 221B was filled with tea and keyboard clatter and chuckles and John. That is what we have to do.

***

Lestrade pours cases over me. They have managed about as well as could be expected without me, and now they need me to fill in the empty spaces. Unbelievably predictable and boring, most of it. I accept anyway and text John.

No answer.

I text about the next one. Four texts in a row, ten minutes apart.

No answer.

I exaggerate the danger in the next one.

I joke.

I tell him I need his expertise in some area where my knowledge is slightly too thin – will need Molly to give me the next defective eyeballs she gets to experiment on and fill in the gap – but he still ignores me.

Days go by. I keep texting. I do not even care if I have a case as an excuse any more.

Standing by the window. Fingers trembling around the phone, they feel cold and slippery. Chemicals rush through me, none of them put there by my own will, sadly. I still refuse to name them. They need to just go away so I can think, I cannot think, I cannot see whether I should do this.

_Miss you. SH_

Something is wrong. I know it already. I get that feeling I get at social gatherings; blurting a deduction, sensing it is somehow against the rules to do so but not able to deduce why. (You call me a genius, John. How little you know. Donovan calls me a freak, which is really more accurate.)

The phone buzzes. I should feel joy, but instead I feel panic. Something is wrong.

Eyes are wide and dry, throat is closed when I unlock the screen.

_We are not friends any more, Sherlock. Don't text me again._

***

Stare into the microscope. Lab is silent around me, a silence slightly more bearable than that of 221B. Determinedly fix all my attention and all the capacity of my brain into my eyes, thinking only about the puzzle in front of me. It never allows me to forget the coldness living in my stomach, but sometimes I can at least pretend it does.

Door opens.

“Oh, hello!” Molly says. I remain silent. Door falls shut behind her, she stands there for a full minute, watching me. Then she begins moving around the lab, her movements fluttery and distracted. I endure five minutes of it, then I sigh and look up.

“What?”

She looks to me, startled. “Sorry?”

“You want to tell me something.”

She bites her lip.

“But you're not sure if you should”, I add. “Whatever it is, spit it out. I can't work when you're thinking that loudly.”

She looks at me in silence for a moment. “I ran into John.”

(Your name sends an electric shock through me. Should be enough to kill me, really, yet here I remain, forced to deal with this.)

Cannot help myself. “How is he?”

“He's… Well, he _seems_ fine. He wants people to think he's fine.” Molly's face is grave, all the usual perkiness gone from it, and I can see her choosing her words carefully. “He's engaged, which I'm sure you know. And Mary seems like a good person. But I know what John's happiness looks like, and this is not it. His eyes… they're sad.”

(You are out there, in my city, walking and breathing and running into people. People get to meet you, to see you, you are flesh and blood and can be seen, and none of all the people seeing you understand you.)

“He misses you.”

Feel my features sharpen with urgency. “Did he say?”

“He didn't have to. He still mourns you like you're dead.”

“Did he speak of me?” Damn it, where did that childlike question come from?

Molly shakes her head. “I didn't dare to bring you up. Sherlock, have you talked to him?”

My eyes fall away. “No”, I say curtly.

“Why? I know it must be difficult for him to adjust to this, but once you explained-”

“I didn't explain.”

“What? But Sherlock, he must think you did this out of lack of compassion! You have to-”

“He doesn't want to hear it”, I interrupt her. “He told me to stop trying to get in touch. His message was perfectly clear.”

“But this is killing him”, Molly says unhappily. “He needs to know.”

I glance at her once more before I turn back to the microscope. Stare into it, seeing nothing.

“You should try it again”, Molly says, ignoring my trying to shut her out. “For his sake and for your own. _You_ miss _him_. You did all of this for him.”

“It will go away.” My voice is rough.

“No, Sherlock”, she almost whispers. “What I felt for you, _that_ goes away with time. But the kind of love you feel for John, that will stay with you forever.”

 _Love_. My eyes sting. _M_ _arriage_ _k_ _issing_ _t_ _ouching_ _g_ _rowing old_ _with you._

“I don't-” I start, but Molly knew I was going to, so she interrupts immediately.

“Yes, you do.”

“I'm a high-functioning-”

“No, you're not. I saw you after you jumped. You are not.”

Stare into the microscope. I used to be so good at tuning people out. Why do I fail so enormously at ignoring her, and why does she call me out on all of it? I suppose that is what good friends do; they understand you, they do not let you escape into the darkest rooms of your mind in peace, they insist on saving you from yourself. Molly is a good friend. I have to stop with this friending thing.

***

Knot the scarf around my neck as I run down the stairs, the coat already on. Reach out for the door handle, pause. There is an envelope on the door mat, cream white. It is small, should not be able to block my way, but it somehow does.

Bend down and pick it up carefully, as if it may contain a bomb. (I am almost positive it does, in a way.) It is addressed to Martha Hudson, but I open it and pull the thick card out.

_Dr John Hamish Watson & Miss Mary Elizabeth Morstan request the pleasure of your company at their marriage._

They stare at me from the picture, mouths smiling. Her eyes are mocking, his are sad. (You hate your middle name.)

_Love. Marriage. Kissing. Touching. Growing old with you._

Mrs Hudson's door opens behind me. I have lost count of how many minutes I have been standing here, letting Mary mock me and John grieve me.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson greets me happily, before she sees my frozen posture. Her voice changes into concern. “What is it?”

I do not answer, do not dare even to move (your face, it is your face). She walks in front of me and stops when she sees the card in my hand.

“Oh”, she says once more. “You've received one, then. I'm still waiting for mine.”

“No”, I say, snapping out of my stillness. “This is yours.”

Shove it into her hands. She takes it and I avoid her eyes.

“I'm sure yours will arrive tomorrow”, she says.

“I don't think so.”

Silence. Baker Street is so silent.

“Are you going out?” she asks, eyeing my coat.

“Yes”, I say and it sounds like a question, because I cannot for the life of me remember where I was going.

“Would you care for a cuppa first? Come in, dear, it's been a while since I've seen you.”

I meet her gaze at last. Compassion. Pity, even. My brain works too slowly (John Hamish Watson, what have you done to wreck my brain?).

She grabs me lightly by my elbow and I do not protest when she steers me into her flat. I watch her in silence as she moves around preparing tea and biscuits, not bothering to take my coat off; it makes me feel safe.

So does Mrs Hudson, actually.

She sits down and puts the cup in front of me, sipping on her own. The silence stretches, but it is a relatively pleasurable one.

“You haven't been in touch at all?” she finally asks.

“He hasn't.”

She sighs. “I suppose he realises this is hard for you.”

“What do you mean?”

She has hidden the wedding invitation under a pile of magazines, but I feel as though I can still see it there in the corner of my eye, burning through all the paper covering it.

“Seeing him get married. Given your history and all.”

I snort, still not looking at her. “He's had a lot of girlfriends before, he has paraded them through the flat in an endless, tiresome row. That's our history.”

“I know, dear”, she sighs. “It isn't the first time you've had to see him with someone else. Still, marriage is another thing, isn't it?”

I carefully take a sip from my tea. “We were never a couple.”

The surprise radiating from her makes me look up. She has frozen with her cup halfway to the table, eyebrows raised when she watches me.

“What?” I ask.

“You have never denied that before.”

“Well”, I say, restlessly running my thumb against the china in my hand. “He has done it enough for both of us.”

Mrs Hudson nods. “He always was very shy about that. I assumed he just didn't want people to know he's bisexual.”

I shrug. “I suppose you're right.”

“Oh.” She finally puts her cup back down. “You mean there _was_ something between you, then?”

“No. Yes. No.”

She is quiet for a moment. “He never admitted to his feelings for you, is that it?”

I hesitate. “Not at first, no.”

She watches me with her alert, kind eyes, and I am careful not to look up. She makes a surprisingly accurate deduction anyway.

“Oh Sherlock, dear. You turned him down, didn't you?”

Glance at her curtly, then away again. “Yes.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“I do not engage in such entanglements, Mrs Hudson.”

“Why?”

An undefined, irritated sound. “All emotion is abhorrent to me.”

“Oh come now, dear. You cannot fool me with that nonsense.”

Glance at her again. That sharpness of hers seldom surfaces, but I have always known it is there. People make the mistake of taking her for a gentle, silly elderly woman, but they could not be more wrong.

A wave of warmth inside my chest betrays that what I have just told her about emotion is, indeed, nonsense. I am very fond of Mrs Hudson. Having a sniper pointing at John on the day of the fall made me panic, but even if there would have been only one sniper and it pointed at this lady, I would have jumped for her.

This is dangerous. But I cannot help it. She has a way about her, and she seems to have a key to unlock me. (As do you.)

“Fine. I have _chosen_ not to engage in such entanglements. They are simply too unpredictable, too vulnerable and too demanding. They provide a dangerous distraction to the one thing important to me; the work. I cannot afford having erratic chemicals disturbing me and taking control of my body when I need to _think_. The body is unimportant, it is useless, it is a transport for what matters. I do not wish to indulge in its needs just for the sake of momentary pleasure.”

Mrs Hudson raises her eyebrows. “You are an addict and a smoker, you put three nicotine patches on your arm at once. Those are chemicals you indulge in for the pleasure of your body, aren't they?” She imitates my phrasing of words with a glint of humour in her eyes.

“Completely beside the point”, I scowl at her. “Those are predictable and logical and help me think. Thinking is the only thing I do that is of any value and importance.”

The glint in her eyes disappears and she looks suddenly sad. “Is that really what you think of yourself?”

“It's a matter of fact. My work is the one area in which I am useful, and so I have chosen a life alone. I'm not capable of satisfying the emotional needs of another human being. I'm rude and callous and I see people's secrets in a way nobody likes to be seen.”

“But John sees past all of that, Sherlock”, she says and I was really hoping she would not. “You have such a kind heart, I have always known it, and I was so happy to see you meet someone who saw it too. Why would you push him away?”

I drop my eyes. This is where I should leave. “Having friends is dangerous enough”, I say quietly. “Everyone involved in such arrangements are unacceptably vulnerable. My friendship nearly cost John, Lestrade and you your lives – John more than once – and it cost me two years of my life. And…” I should not continue, but I cannot help it. Maybe she put something in the tea; it is unacceptable for a simple human being to have this effect on me. “And I cannot think without John's presence any more”, I blurt out. “I used to be just fine when I was alone, but now this hateful silence is disturbing my work. That's what happens when I let sentiment get the better of me, and I will not risk it happening again.”

She reaches out for my hand, and I flinch when she touches me. “It has already happened, Sherlock”, she says softly. “I understand this must scare you, but I hate to see you closed off without even understanding that what you feel right now is heartbreak.”

I make a sound that is meant to be mocking and dismissive, but comes out closer to a sob.

“Maybe you have never felt that way about someone before”, she says, “and maybe you are too afraid to see it for what it is. But you are very in love with John, Sherlock.”

“I am not.” (Why is my voice sounding this thick, John? It is your fault I suddenly sound like a child again.)

“No?” She draws back her hand and takes a sip of her tea. “What do you feel for him, then?”

“He's my friend.”

“I'm your friend, too. But you would never let me follow you everywhere you go, isn't that right, dear?”

She is indeed right. I feel an unsuspected amount of fondness towards her, but I would not tolerate her moving around in my flat making noise all day, I would not be stimulated by her presence on crime scenes even if she had skills that were useful there, and I would not want to catalogue every aspect of her in the way I have with John (and I was not finished with that, by the way, there is so much more about you that I want to find out).

“So”, she continues, “what is it about John that is special?”

“He is fascinating. He is contradictory, a paradox that I cannot comprehend, a puzzle that I have yet to solve. The soldier and the doctor, the strength and the kindness. He's slipping through my fingers; just when I think I have understood, he does something entirely unpredicted and I have to re-evaluate all previous data. It is as frustrating as it is stimulating. I have never met another human being so interesting. I have studied his behaviour every day from when he moved in with me until I had to leave, and I'm still not bored. I can still only predict his reactions seventy percent of the time.” I furrow my brow. “Maybe even more seldom now. It fascinates me. I have been looking for a puzzle that intricate for my whole life, and I have found it in John Watson.”

“But why John?”, Mrs Hudson asks.

“What do you mean, why John?” Stupid question. “Because he's John.”

“And he is very nice”, she agrees. “A kind and sincere man. Polite, averagely good-looking.”

“There is nothing average about John”, I say condescendingly.

“Every human being is an intricate puzzle”, Mrs Hudson states, making me scoff. “I know you don't think it, you don't see it, because you're not interested in them. You only see these things with John. That's what it's like to be in love, dear.”

“I'm not in love with John. I'm married to my work, and if I'd have any feelings resembling love whatsoever, it would be towards the puzzle, not to him or any other human.”

“You say that”, she says, eyeing me thoughtfully. “But I don't think it's the whole truth. Let me ask you another question. Are you attracted to him?”

A pang of unexpected anger. “My body is unimportant-” I start, but she interrupts me.

“How do you feel when he touches you?”

“That's unimportant.”

“Does it feel good?”

(Your knee against mine at movie nights on the sofa. Your hand on my shoulder when you pass me by in the kitchen. Your arm around my waist when you pull me out of a bullet's path.)

“Yes.”

“Would you like him to do it more?”

“His touch calms me. He's a doctor, it's only natural.”

She looks amused. “And how do you feel when you see him? Happy? Warm?”

“Yes.”

“Do you find him handsome?”

“Of course, yes. He's a soldier.”

“You like soldiers, then?”

“Well, yes”, I feel myself blush slightly, damn it, “who isn't attracted to soldiers, anyway? They are brave and strong and wear uniforms. Soldiers in general and John in particular hold themselves in a certain way; the way he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin is… intriguing.”

“Mhm.” Mrs Hudson quietly drinks her tea and I feel sheepish without knowing why.

She puts her cup at the table and meets my eyes, looking serious now.

“And how does it feel when he's gone?” she asks.

I have an impulse to jump up from the chair and flee back to my flat. But then I remember the suffocating silence in there and I cannot bring myself to do it.

“Hateful”, I answer her quietly, “utterly hateful. Everything is empty and grey and silent, and I cannot think when he isn't talking to me and laughing and looking all warm and soft.”

I no longer recognise myself. Who is this stranger sitting here, drinking tea, having conversations about _emotions_ with his old landlady? Embarrassing. (What have you done with me?)

“He's getting married”, she says gently and I hate her fiercely for mentioning it. “Are you happy for him?”

“No. She doesn't deserve him.”

I stare down at my tea, and her hand comes up to cover mine. She squeezes me gently and I am surprised when my vision is suddenly blurry.

“That's just because I know him so well”, I try. “I know what's best for him. He's my John.”

“When you say his name, it sounds like more than a name. It's a word to you, and it contains more than what other people put into it. That's love, dear.”

How did she notice that?

Clear my throat and pull the chair back; I would rather force myself back to the silence upstairs than- than this.

“I wouldn't know”, I snap, and I flee.


	3. Chemicals

Corpse. Blood. Face pressed into cheap hotel room carpet. Male, thirty plus. Cause of death: stab wound to the throat. (Crime of passion. His clothes are dirty. Dust. Mud. Blood. Had a haircut recently. Faded bruise on left hand. Empty wallet. Cheap phone.)

Straighten my back, cross the small hotel room, barely pause in front of Lestrade when I interrupt his conversation with the forensics.

“Arrest his step-brother.”

Continue through the door, pretend not to hear Lestrade call after me.

“Hey, Sherlock! Wanna take us through it?”

(No, why would I want that? I want to take _you_ through it, John.)

Walk briskly down the hall. I am almost at the elevator when Lestrade stops me with a hand around my upper arm. Roll my eyes as he turns me around.

“Look”, he says, “I know no one can keep up with your deduction speed, but you were only at this crime scene for two minutes and I can't just go and arrest people without explanation.”

“Three and a half”, I correct him, trying to turn away.

“Sherlock”, Lestrade starts in a warning tone.

“Just bring him in, would you? I'll explain it to you when we meet for the next case.”

Lestrade rubs his hand over his eyes. “I'm not a case-producing machine, Sherlock, I don't know when I'll have another one for you.”

“Which is why I don't particularly like you”, I cut off. (You would think that was unnecessary and harsh. I could not care less.)

“Well I don't always like you either, but I'm gonna brush past that because I know you've been down lately.” I draw a breath to contradict him, but he continues before I can speak. “Listen, we're having a bit of a get-together tomorrow night. For… John. A stag night.”

I stare. Why would he tell me this? (You have chosen Lestrade for your best man, the man without a proper first name? You really have no friends, you poor soul, and the ones you have hate you.)

(Stupid bastards.)

“It would be great if you came”, Lestrade finishes, clapping my arm.

Furrow my brow. “You're inviting me to John's stag night?”

“Yeah. You try to calm yourself down with cases, but it doesn't work very well, does it? A night out at a decent bar with some friends might do the trick for you.”

I eye him in disbelief. “I don't have friends.”

“Of course you do, you have me, John and that Stamford bloke. Maybe make some new friends there if you're lucky.”

“I don't think-” I pause. “I don't think John would like that.”

“Don't be stupid”, Lestrade says, which is pretty rich coming from him. “I know it was difficult for both of you when you came back, but you shouldn't let it come between you. You're both miserable without each other, seriously, it's depressing to watch. He'd be delighted to see you.”

“No”, I say, and I am saved by the elevator doors sliding open and a woman hurrying out. I slip inside and the doors are closing before Lestrade has the chance to say anything else.

***

I am so bored it makes me furious.

That is the very worst kind of boredom. There is not only the peaceful dullness, but also the fury's cascade of unbearable chemicals mixed with it.

I am furious because nothing is interesting enough to occupy me any more. I need a case, I need a case, the most nasty and terrifying one, but I will not get one because Lestrade is on the stupid stag night, and I am not desperate enough to ask Mycroft for occupation. (He would easily deduce the extent of my failure at keeping you out of my head.) There is nothing else for my mind to ponder than the fact that (you are getting married in a week).

My last resort; pick up my violin. Chemicals do not make it impossible to play even though I tremble, but playing can make the chemicals change. The fury calms, shifts into something colder, stiffer; terror, fear.

Keep playing, focusing my mind on the points where my body touches the wood and the steel. Light weight on my shoulder. Smooth surface under my chin. (I am terrified.) Sharp strings pressing into my fingertips. (I am terrified, John.) The thin wood of the bow delicately balanced in my right hand. (I am terrified of Mrs Hudson being right.)

(That last time you looked at me; you were so convinced I could not love. You were so convinced of the sociopath and I was so relieved.)

(I was relieved even though I know the sociopath is a lie. A disguise, carefully built over many years.)

Oh, how I have been hoping that if enough people believe in the sociopath, he will become real. He should have, by now. But here I am, afraid – shoulder chin fingertips hand-

I slipped. Mycroft knew it at once and I should have listened to him, I should not have let myself get involved and now it is too late (no, no, I cannot even regret it, I cannot regret you).

I swore to never love, I swore to kill that little Mummy's boy. He was a bright sun people could not bear looking at, he was without skin, everything pouring into him, everything; consuming him, hurting him. I closed him, I cut him, I poured chemicals into him – I killed him and I hate myself for it, but I hate myself even more for doing the job poorly.

I thought I was somehow safe now, I thought I could have friends, stupid stupid. I thought I could keep the lightness and the brightness forever, I made myself forget the crash that inevitably comes, the unbearable rush of feelings; they are only chemicals, they are unimportant, and I think they might kill me.

(You were a sun inside 221B, hair sticking up in the mornings and tea cup in hand, and I let you warm me up with smiles and wake the sun inside me, and now you are getting married getting married and not to me – to _me_ , I do not even want things like that, why do I complain about this, marriage is stupid!)

(I do not know what being in love means. But _you_ know, and you decided it could mean us. Mrs Hudson knows, and she saw it in me.)

People are so stupid in love. They lose their heads and turn their lives upside down for it; I have never understood what makes it worth it, how they can let the chemicals lure them.

(And now I have this terrible suspicion that I might understand after all. That there is no difference between them and what I have done for you. That I should have known all along, that I should have recognised it.)

The violin creaks when I grip the bow harder and press it into the strings. I close my eyes hard and force horrifying sounds out of the instrument, feel the violent vibrations of it shake my chest, making me nauseous.

(I may be in love. Does it matter? Why would that _matter_? I do not need to be held, I do not need to be touched, I do not want to waste time consumed by the pointless drive of my body. It is just chemicals, they are not important, I cannot control them and so they are not good.)

( _Love_ _m_ _arriage_ _k_ _issing_ _t_ _ouching_ _g_ _rowingoldwithyou-_ NO I do not need it.)

Dark outside now. Lower the instrument and fight the impulse to smash it into the wall. Enough. I need to get in control. I need to put out the sun; close me, cut me, pour chemicals into my veins that are predictable and good.

Coat engulfing my shoulders and scarf in my hand, reach out to pick up my phone from the table when the screen lights up. Text from Lestrade. Case?

Would I choose case before drugs right now? I might. That would at least keep Mycroft away. If it is an eight or more, I might.

_Where are you? It's not too late to join the party!_

Agonised sound escapes my throat.

_Busy. Case. SH_

_I know you have nothing on since you've been begging me for a case all day. Come on, we miss you here!_

Cringe. Alcohol seems to be a central part of this “get-together”.

_Experience tells me my company rarely improves a social gathering. SH_

Pocket the phone and head through the door, but cannot resist stopping on the stairs when the phone vibrates again.

_John's been asking for you. I feel like a shitty best man if I can't meet his wishes. Get here now!_

Hesitate, staring at the screen. (Your name burning into my retina.)

A groom in love with someone else is probably bad enough without the person in question actually showing up on the stag night. Lestrade obviously does not know about our last encounter, or he would not find this invitation appropriate. But if John is actually asking for me, perhaps his feelings have subsided.

(And if I go now, I get to see your face in fifteen minutes.)

( _John's been asking for you._ Your name is more than a name, it is a word, containing more than I can express.)

(And is apparently enough to have me walking through the doors of a loud and stinking bar at a Saturday night.)

Coat collar pulled up as tightly as possible. I let the door fall shut behind me, standing still, scanning the room.

( _John._ )

He is sitting at a table in the corner with three other people, his face towards the door. He is smiling (and I am melting and freezing at the same time). He holds a pint close to his mouth, just about to take a sip after finishing telling Lestrade something across the table.

His eyes drift away from Lestrade's face and lock with mine. He stills with the pint still in his hand, his eyes becoming naked in the same horrifying way as that night of my return. I cannot move, my eyes are dry and stinging.

This is an unapologetic mistake. (I am sorry, John, I am leaving as soon as I can move again.)

Lestrade turns around when he sees John's change of expression, lights up when he sees me and hurriedly gets out of his chair.

“Sherlock!” he calls. I eye him quickly, glance at the table. Heavy drinking to cover awkwardness seems to be the theme of this stag night. Tedious.

Lestrade draws me into another rough hug – he really has to stop doing that – and then steers me to the bar.

“I'm not staying”, I try to tell him. “John doesn't want me.”

“Don't be silly, John loves you!” Lestrade says too loudly and orders a beer for me. As if that was not precisely the problem.

Clumsy, filthy bodies bump into me as we move through the room. Lestrade slams my beer against the small table and pushes me down on the bench next to John. He flinches as my arm accidentally brushes against his, and he moves into the corner, nearly crowding Mike Stamford on his other side. I sit carefully at the edge of my seat, allowing Lestrade to introduce me to the fourth man at the table.

“This is Matt, have you met him?”

Extend my hand. “Sherlock Holmes”, I say curtly.

“Matt Jackson”, the man says, “I'm a receptionist at the clinic where John and Mary work. It's so nice to finally meet you, the great Sherlock Holmes!” He giggles and I cringe, having to use some force to get my hand back from his sweaty grip.

Turn my eyes to Mike Stamford, who gives a friendly smile and raises his glass. “Sherlock, great to have you back.”

Contemplate smiling back but decide against it, knowing the grimace will only give me away. Because I have to turn to the last man at the table now, sitting directly to my right, currently leaning away from me as much as he possibly can without making it too obvious.

He burns so brightly in the corner of my eye that my instinct tells me not to look at him directly, as if I might go blind if I do. I force myself to do it anyway.

Our eyes meet (so near now). His are terrified. I give him one nod. “John”, I say gravely.

He visibly struggles to get his voice back. “Sherlock”, he finally says, strained. “Didn't think you'd be here.”

“Lestrade told me to come.”

John shoots a murderous eye at Lestrade, the beer in his system probably making him think it is discreet enough for me to miss it – which says a lot about the level of alcohol in his blood, since I never miss things like that. I take the opportunity to glare at Lestrade too. His eyes flick insecurely between the two of us.

“Well, cheers to that!” he shouts, raising his pint. I have no idea what we are toasting, but I drink. Not my drug of choice, far from it, but it will do.

“This is so great!” the receptionist exclaims, looking between me and John. “Seeing the two of you together! I've been reading John's blog for years, big fan of yours actually. Imagine my delight when it turned out John Watson was a doctor at my new workplace!” He sends a smile John's way, and from the corner of my eye I see John's tight smile back. (Why are you putting up with these people? You should be with people who actually like you on your stag night – I would have conducted an unforgettable one for you.) “I was devastated when you died, I must say”, the idiot continues turned to me, “it's amazing that you pulled something like that off! Haven't seen much of you since then, though. John, you have been lazy updating your blog, you should start it back up again.”

“Well”, John says, sounding as though he is being strangled. “Life changes. Wouldn't be the same blog now, anyway.”

“Suppose not, with you getting married and all. Sherlock has to solve some cases on his own now, huh?”

He does not pause to notice the disastrous impact this topic has on the atmosphere around the table. Instead he bends down, searching in the pocket of his jacket hanging at the back of his chair. He comes up with his phone, unlocking it as he speaks.

“Can I get a picture of the two of you together?”

I hear my own incoherent protest mix with John's (I hate you for spending time with these people, I hate them for being here the first time I see you in months). But the receptionist does not listen to us, swiping at his screen, holding the phone up, apparently ready to take the picture. John is still as a statue beside me, and I steal a glance at him; his face is tense, but when he realises he will not escape from the photo he tries to smile. The flash goes off before I have turned back and I am ice cold at the thought of what my own face must have looked like (looking at you).

The space between us, only a few inches, is so charged my right arm starts to ache from it. The air is nearly impossible to breathe. Lestrade looks more and more desperate, trying to ease the tension. I do little to help him, that really is not my area after all; my speciality is to _bring_ tension, and here it is, the worst kind of it. Matt the receptionist does not seem to notice it, and Mike Stamford makes an effort to laugh with Lestrade even though there is no air in here to use for laughing. I remain as silent as possible, hoping it will discourage the fangirling of the receptionist. I try not to look at John; that seems like the most polite thing to do.

I cannot really help it, however.

(You look tired. You have lost weight; could be on purpose in preparation for the wedding, but the shadows under your eyes suggest another reason. Planning a wedding stresses people out, I expect, but that is not it in this case. If you were a person on the street I was deducing, I would have said this man is grieving a deceased spouse.)

John tries his very best not to look at me, either. But I can see him slip. He holds the pint to his mouth as a constant excuse not to talk or laugh, and the more he drinks, the more he glances at me. I see it out of the corner of my eye every time. (And every time something inside of me shatters to pieces.) He stares at my chest (ensuring I am breathing. You cannot get enough of the sight).

(In your world, I am not even alive.)

I remember the pressure of his fingers against my wrist (and I want to put them back there, let you feel it. I am alive John, I am here).

Lestrade does his best to initiate a conversation that can include both John and me, determined to thaw the wall of ice rising between us. He starts telling anecdotes from our cases together, much to the delight of Matt the receptionist. When neither John nor I join the storytelling, Lestrade starts getting details wrong on purpose, knowing it will drive me mad. I correct him with dripping disdain until he kicks me under the table. Yes, I see what he is doing, and perhaps he is right. Perhaps this is not as bad as I think it is, perhaps John and I just need to break through the tension.

I try to breathe as deeply as I can even though my ribcage feels too tight, I do what Lestrade wants me to and join the reminiscing. The laughter choking out of me feels like cold smoke and my hands are trembling around my pint, but luckily the others are too drunk and ordinarily unobservant to notice. John has received a kick of his own from across the table and he makes an effort as well, even poorer than mine. All the while the receptionist's phone is never far away and the flash blinds me over and over, exposing and saving this hour of my life that is excruciating in a way I have never known before.

(Sometimes our eyes lock. I see my internal screaming echo just as loudly behind your eyes. You want to cry and fight and hit me and hug me, and I want you to do it all enough for both of us. I need _you_ to do it, could never bear to do any of those things myself.)

Alcohol is finally working its way into my system and I somehow manage to live. I am not quite sure about how it all ended and where they all went, as I am standing outside in the warm spring night, the big bar window behind me. Mike Stamford gives me a push to the shoulder, probably with friendly intent, before backing away from me.

“See ya, mate!” he calls.

I do not like being called _mate_ and I do not like being pushed. I gather my balance only to almost lose it again when I see John standing beside me. A sun in the night.

He is looking at me openly now that we are alone. Hands deep into his pockets. Silent.

Look back at him. ( _Truce is over_ , that is what you said. That is the last thing you said to me. I should have known to take that seriously, coming from a soldier.)

“I'm sorry”, I say quietly. “I shouldn't have come.”

He does not answer, just stares at me. He has the same look on his face as he had at _The Landmark_. He is dying to do it, and I am so ready for it.

“You can punch me now”, I tell him.

A shadow of lethal emotion possesses his face, his mouth tensing and shrinking, his eyes burning. When he moves he does it fast; two steps towards me, throwing one hand up to grip the front of my jacket like he did that night, and I wait for the other hand to hit my cheek.

Instead, I feel it violently tugging my hair, drawing my face lower, and then his mouth is crashing onto mine.

The shock holds me in place as firmly as his hands do. All my systems are overloaded by his face (your face, your soft and kind face) pressed against mine (too much at once). His secure grip in my curls is holding me as close as physically possible (not close enough). I hear a whimper in my throat and then I gasp a breath, my mouth falling open under his lips.

The air rushing into me brings his scent with it, and it is so overwhelming I would have fallen down if he had not been holding my jacket (soap and beer and home and _John_ ).

John takes the opportunity to suck my lower lip into his mouth, pulling on it hard for just a moment before releasing it again with a scrape of his teeth, just light enough not to count as a bite. Suddenly all of his hands are gone and I collapse against the window behind me, I am panting, I am shaking, I am a mess I do not even remotely recognise as myself.

The kiss was short and should not be enough to wreck me this way. My eyes are wide when I look at John.

“I lied about the punching”, he says. “This is what I really wanted to do.”

Big blue eyes taking me in for just a moment before he turns around and walks away.

I stand there for many minutes before I realise that the coldness on my cheeks is due to me crying.


	4. Unlocked

Pacing through my flat, fingering on all my things with restless hands. I refuse to cry any more. Anything but crying. (You kissed me.)

I feel as if my insides are dissolving.

But they are not. That is just a feeling. It is not real. (But nothing has ever felt so real.)

Petri dishes under the microscope. I cannot even remember the experiment. Nails, something. (Kissing.)

Mantelpiece: skull, letters, knife, Cluedo. Kissing (you).

Violin case. Case wall, London map. (Kissed me.)

Fall into my chair and fall out of it again, touch John's chair and flutter away to the sofa, try to lie down but shoot up from that one too. (I want you to kiss me.)

Count the minutes as they pass to occupy my mind. They gather and grow and soon they have become hours. I keep waiting for the next minute to feel lighter, but every single one is like a dagger carving holes in me.

Anything but this feeling. I go another round. Experiment (unimportant), Cluedo (with you), violin (for you), cases (I need you), chairs (I want you), sofa (kiss me).

It was not even pleasant. It was not even like a real kiss. (But it was you. Mouth and hands and-) There was nothing romantic or sweet about it (do I want romantic and sweet?), but it was a kiss ( _kissingtouchingkissing_ ).

(You were so close to me. I know you so well, I know all the _John_ and for a moment everything was palpable and real in a way I did not know it could be.)

 _Love_. (Love? Something. Warm and urgent and too big, far too big for my chest.) _Marriage_. (In six days.) _Kissing_. (Lips and hands and scents and breaths and teeth.) _Touching_ (help me help me). _Growing old with you_.

Love: John?

Marriage: Mary.

Kissing: more, again, never again, now.

Touching: all the John near me, I want to touch all the John and be held and be held (I am so scared John).

Growing old with you: every day dedicated to the marvel of John Watson, experimenting and collecting data, charting and analysing, maybe one day understanding(and your head on my pillow every night for the rest of my life).

I cannot help counting minutes, painfully aware of them forming hours and then something dangerously resembling days. I try to stop counting, or at least keep myself from doing the maths, but my mind as usual gets carried away in its own brilliance even as it almost hurts my body to do so. I do the maths and every given minute I know precisely how many minutes there are left until the wedding.

Nicotine patches, coffee; maybe sleep would make this better but I refuse to do it, I will not allow my body something it might like. Turn it off, turn it off again, I need to turn it off.

(I close my eyes and there you are. Permanently projected on the insides of my eyelids. I should strive to get you out of me but it is not possible.)

John is everywhere, John is everything.

Love (you).

***

(Things that are impossible without you: Sleeping. Eating. Breathing. Being at 221B Baker Street.)

(I waited, John, I did wait for the chemicals to subside. But I have not slept and I have not eaten I have not taken a single breath since you kissed me and I cannot think, can you imagine that John, Sherlock Holmes cannot think any more.)

(I have solved so many crimes of passion, and I have scoffed at the drama. Why can people not control themselves, I have said to you, why can they not just wait the chemicals out, why not just go away and meet someone else to love if love is so preciously important to them. You looked at me at those times, silently, and I knew you thought it a bit not good, and I did not understand why.)

(But maybe those people had not been sleeping for four days and five hundred and eighty-six minutes, either. Maybe their heads were spinning because the chemicals had been draining them and they had not been able to digest a single piece of food to make up for it. I used to think I was above it all but I have never been this exhausted, because I know for a fact that I will never love someone else.)

(And that should not matter, John, because I never wanted to love someone in the first place, but you make it matter and I cannot think and now I cannot be at Baker Street.)

I am hovering around a big, pale yellow stone house of twenty apartments. Took me mere seconds to deduce which window is theirs. (You and Mary. Mary and you. Dr John Hamish Watson & Miss Mary Elizabeth Morstan request the pleasure of your company at their marriage. You hate the Hamish.)

I watch people pass the doors, in and out; it seems people are actually living lives in the middle of this apocalypse. It makes me feel isolated, imploding behind the bins of John's perfect life. (You said you wanted to marry _me_.) Sometimes I see him and her. They go to work. They come back. They never hold hands – as if that matters, it does not matter stupid, he is marrying her.

I wait like some kind of lovesick teenager and I know Mycroft is probably laughing somewhere, watching me from a distance. He will come and get me home eventually, and hopefully it will be before John is ever home alone and I will not have to face the final decision.

That is not what happens. Mary leaves for work one morning and John stays inside. And I have far too many hours at hand to spend agonising behind their stupid bins.

(You are getting married in two days. My mind is screaming those words in panic and I hardly know what they even mean. The day goes by and you are sitting in your flat; a perfectly ordinary one with no body parts in the microwave is my guess. You are getting married in two days.)

(Come home instead, John.)

I am a bundle of nausea when I step out from behind the bins at 2.21 pm. The stairwell is dirty and the elevator is slow (oh my god, John, how do you stand this elevator?). I should have taken the stairs (but then my pulse would become even faster than it is now and I would not be able to speak and oh god what do I even intend to say?).

I skip knocking, not to risk John slamming the door shut in my face. It is unlocked anyway. (Will you remember the kiss?) Telly is on somewhere in the flat, volume so low it is almost undetectable. Close the door behind me, not bothering to keep quiet. Hear him suddenly stir, and he meets me by the time I reach the living room doorway. He was asleep on the couch with daytime crap telly on in the background. (You do not normally do that in the daytime. Not before.)

He stops short when he sees me. (You remember the kiss.)

We stare at each other. I expect anger, and I see him trying to work it up to cover the sadness, nakedness. His defences were down and he does not seem to have the energy to put them back up for me.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

Try to speak through the nausea. The words come out slow. “I don't know exactly.”

He sighs and briefly covers his eyes with a hand. “Then you should leave again”, he says, looking at me tiredly. “I don't want to see you.”

“But I-” God, I really should have prepared better for this. “I want to see you.”

“Right.” He almost smiles. “And that's just the way it is, then, is it.”

(You are soft and tired and harmless and still I feel pinned under your gaze, I cannot move from the spot, I feel like a useless piece of wood.)

I have risked my life every day for two years to dismantle a worldwide criminal network, and I have been focused and unafraid throughout the process. But I cannot handle standing in front of John Watson, asking him for something I do not even know what it is, not daring to want the one thing I crave.

Tear my eyes away from his and let them glance around the room, anywhere but to him. Details flow into me, piercing me and demanding attention. My starved, sleep-deprived brain cannot shield itself from it, the deducing consumes me and I feel as if I might burst. I give in and let it pour out of me, my neck too stiff to move with my eyes.

“You have been sleeping in a sitting position in front of the telly”, I tell him. “Your hair is sticking up in the back, your shirt is creased, your neck is stiff and your eyes are squinting. You weren't actually watching the telly as you fell asleep, however; the volume is too low, you had it on only to try and distract yourself from thoughts and feelings. Simultaneously you tried to read a magazine about guns, currently sitting on the side table, but it didn't manage to hold your attention either. It was a gift from Mary and you have tried to start reading it on several occasions out of obligation to her, but looking at gun pictures isn't satisfying your need for war and danger. She doesn't understand this about you.”

“Sherlock”, he tries to interrupt, but I am speaking too fast to even be able to stop.

“You and Mary are neither tidy nor organised people, but you care about upholding the appearance of being those things. On the surface everything is nice, but there's dust in the corners and under the sofa left from a sloppy sweeping five to six days ago, and your drawers are far too full and horrifyingly disorganised.” The deducing has melted some of my petrification away and I manage to move my hand to point at a chest of drawers, rapidly continuing: “There's a sock sticking out from that one even though it's positioned in the living room. Also there's a lack of decoration, making the flat look impersonal, which Mary is fine with but you secretly hate. The fact that you haven't made an effort to make it a home could mean that you're planning to start a family and soon move to a bigger house; or it could mean that you aren't particularly attached to this relationship and are prepared to leave on a short notice.”

“ _Sherlock-_ ”

“The evenings in this flat are commonly lacking socialisation. The sofa is a collective purchase you both made as you moved here; it's clearly not older than ten months. The left side cushion has a deeper dip than the right one, however, and I know from previous data that you prefer the left side; the sofa is thus frequently used by you, but you are seldom joined by Mary. Furthermore, the sofa is positioned in such a way that hardly anything but the telly is in a convenient view from it, so conversation whilst one person is on the sofa and the other isn't is impractical. Conclusion: you both spend your evenings on your own.”

“Sherlock, calm the hell down.”

“You keep your door unlocked.” (I am calm, can you not see my calm and cold deducing?) “Mary didn't lock it behind her when she left for work, and you didn't get up and do it. This could be due to sloppiness, but no, not you, not with your history of solving crimes and getting kidnapped on numerous occasions. You are both bored with your mundane life and are practically begging for something dangerous and unexpected to happen. Or perhaps you are just so tired and bored that you didn't notice she didn't lock it, and she did it on purpose and actually wishes you get kidnapped –”

“Hey-”

“I don't want you to marry her”, I finish in a rush.

A brief silence when the deductions have finally died away.

“That's not for you to decide”, John says.

“I don't want you to marry her”, I insist, “because I want you to be with _me_.”

“I know that. You want me to be there all the time so you can order me around and have someone to experiment on, because I'm the only person who's ever been crazy enough to put up with those things. You want to be my commander and possess me and take advantage of how I feel for you in order to keep me, isn't that right.”

“No. No that's not right at all.” (Is that what you think of me?)

“Yes, it is. God, Sherlock, you're like a four-year-old. You can't accept not having your way, and someone telling you no means nothing to you. So you barge in here without one single thought on what might be good for _me_ , which by the way is what a friend is supposed to do. Guess you never were my friend at all.”

“Stop it, John. You're not listening to what I'm saying.” I try to continue and fail.

“Well you're not really saying anything except taking my flat and my life apart and stomping on them, so.”

“You seem to think I have no feelings. But I do.” My voice trembles involuntarily to underscore the point. “That- that thing. That you said. I- I think I want that too.”

“What thing?”

I glare at him (stop being inexcusably stupid). “The _thing_ , John.”

He shakes his head. I try again.

“The- you said. About me. About- that you wanted… some things.” Stare at him; he still does not get it. A desperate breath. “The growing old with you”, I blurt. Those somehow seem like the least dangerous of the words in the string.

John is very still now. “What do you mean, exactly.”

“It should be obvious now, shouldn't it?” I snarl. “You said you wanted me and I want you too. I want you in the way Mary has you.”

“I don't think you mean that”, he says slowly.

“Well I don't exactly _wish_ for this! Before you came my life worked perfectly, I had the work and I could think, and now I can't think without you any more, I am _useless_ without you, John. Now I keep having these irrational feelings about being ripped apart even though I know I'm perfectly intact, and I keep wishing for you to be with me even though I know that sentiment will probably kill me in the end. I find that I don't even care about that, I only care about- the- _things_.”

“I don't think you actually understand the _things_ , Sherlock. It kind of sounds like you're trying to make some sort of confession here-”

“I _am_ -”

“Do you even know what it means to be in a relationship? It's not something you can enter just to ensure someone will stay around. It requires work and emotional investment and I know you, you'd hate it. You don't do things like that. And you don't do anything physical either. Remember that I told you what- what things I might want to do with you?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Well you don't want that.”

“How do you know, John?”

We stare at each other for a moment. Something shifts in his eyes and the air suddenly feels electric against my skin.

“Am I wrong?” he asks.

“I- I don't know, exactly! I- I think I might-”

“What? You have to actually speak if you want to tell me something, Sherlock.”

“You kissed me”, I say, voice unusually high. He visibly flinches when the word _kiss_ is suddenly in the open. “Afterwards I felt- I _fe_ _lt_ something. I _want_ something.”

He examines my face closely when he asks: “Do you feel like doing it again?”

“I- I _think_ so. Maybe. Something.”

He shakes his head. “Not good enough.”

“But- but _John!_ All those things. That you said.” I look at him in wild resignation. “Mrs Hudson told me, she asked me how I felt and she came to the conclusion that- that I-”

“That you what?”

“The _thing_ , John!” I say desperately, trying to escape saying it out loud. “I want to _be_ with you!”

“You're too late.”

“I am _not_! In two days I'd be too late.”

“No, you are actually _two years_ late, Sherlock. I have nothing left to give you after what you did to me.”

(He had snipers, John. He had a sniper pointed at you. He had snipers.)

“Please.” (I have never begged in my life. You know this.)

“No, Sherlock. Because if I come back to you, I know for a fact that you'll hurt me again. You'll forget I'm there and you'll dash off from crime scenes leaving me behind, then you'll go away to chase some dangerous criminal with your life at stake without even telling me, and sooner or later you'll pull another insane scheme and forget to let me in on it. You'll use me as a pawn in some game and not even think about if it hurts me. I can't be with someone like that, Sherlock.”

(He had snipers. He had-)

My eyes are damp and John sees it. He tips his head to one side.

“Are you faking those tears?” he asks cruelly.

“No”, I tremble, “please, John.” (I am losing you.) “I swear. I won't do that. I'm so- I'm _sorry_ , John. Please forgive me, please.”

Regret washes over his face, but he cannot take that last question back now (it is hurting my chest, make it stop).

“I can't forgive you, Sherlock”, he almost mumbles.

“John.” Try to focus my gaze properly through the wet layer in my eyes. “I'll do anything.”

He closes his eyes. “Then say it.”

“Say what?”

“The _thing_ ”, he says sarcastically. “If you mean it. Say it.”

I helplessly open my mouth, choking on the most dangerous word. “I can't.”

He opens his eyes. “ _I_ said it.”

“And I _do_ , John.”

He makes a short, humourless laugh. “This has to be the most vague love confession of all times. If that's even what it is.”

“It _is_.”

“Then _say it!_ ”

“What does it _matter_? You won't come back anyway, will you.”

(Please, do not answer that.) The look on John's face hurts like his punches.

“No.”

That is a relief, is what it is. I did not even know if I wanted this. Now I do not need to concern myself with this, now I (cannot live, I am burning, I). I was not even sure what I wanted and now I do not have to find out because he said no (and this is not over, it will never be over, I will never be okay).

Swaying where I stand. Clear my throat and try to keep still. “Well then.” Force myself to meet his eyes even though they are unbearable mirrors of all the things I do not dare to feel. Reach my right hand out for him. “Best of luck on your-” My voice breaks and my hand hangs alone in the air between us. “And congratulations.”

John takes a shuddering breath and grabs my hand. The formality of the handshake should feel cold and impersonal, but when the skin of his palm touches mine, something else happens. (Your hand is perfect. Firm and steady, yet soft. The skin is smooth and warm and I cannot resist brushing my thumb over it.) His eyes shift in that way again when he feels my brief caress, he furrows his brow slightly when he sees something unexpected in my face, and then he draws our joined hands towards himself and wraps me up against his chest. This time, my arms immediately rise to curl around his back.

“Sorry”, he whispers so barely audible that I am not sure I heard correctly.

Hold him closer than I have ever held someone before, taken off-guard by how good it feels. It should hurt, since this is likely the last time I ever see John Watson, but somehow the sensation of him pressed against the entire front of my body, eases the pain. I experimentally tighten my grip and press my nose into his hair, and the pain subsides further at once. My heart beats harder than usual but it is not unpleasant, strangely enough, the discomfort of it rushed over by the brightness my blood suddenly contains. The flow finds its way through my limbs easier and easier, and I hear John's breath hitch when he notices the obvious signs of this in my breathing, my pulse and my groin against him.

Chemicals. They are only chemicals. They are unimportant. But I cannot resist it. This is not the rational thing to do, but the chemicals make me not even care. I lower my head until I reach John's cheek, softly rub my cheek against his, and inhale.

The rush immediately increases, the scent of him flowing through me as if transported by my bloodstream. I absently notice how the world bends in a strange manner, making rooms around us fade, thoughts lose importance and priorities change order. I should mind it, having my focus stolen in favour of standing in John's embrace all vulnerable and human. But I will not break away.

I press my lips against his cheek – what is that impulse, what is it good for? He is a tiny bit rough against the sensitivity of my lips, smells faintly of aftershave but it has faded to make room for the personal scent of his skin. (You shaved yesterday morning, I know that because I still know precisely how fast your beard grows – that is a piece of information I would not dream of deleting.) My head is spinning by now (there is so much going on with you when I explore it this closely, there is so much data I could collect about you, so many experiments to run-)

He sighs and I become aware that I just exhaled against his ear, and more data comes to my attention; _his_ breathing, _his_ pulse, _his_ groin. ( _John._ )

Pull my head back a couple of inches. “John.” (Love.)

(I cannot say it, but can you not hear that your name is a synonym for it?)

He tilts his head and his lips capture mine.

What follows in no way resembles the stag night kiss. His lips are soft and gentle and lingering, sweetly pressing against mine in a way that feels like cherishing, like protecting (like loving). And there are too many sensations at once and instead of going into my brain craving to be deduced, they go straight into my body and make me do things; make me spread my fingers on John's back and push him tightly against me, make me take deep breaths of John's air through my nose, make me come back to John's lips again and again and again. I could never tire of this I think, I could do exactly only this for the rest of my life I think – until his hands have found my waist underneath my coat and he pushes me backwards so my back is against the door frame, and the kisses have become more urgent and suddenly this is not enough, and I cannot get enough air through my nose.

I part my lips to suck more air into my lungs, and once again John takes the opportunity to take my lower lip into his mouth. I feel his tongue graze it lightly and I feel myself gasp, my chest not big enough to contain the air I need. And when his tongue finds mine I let go of a tiny sound in my throat, making him press himself harder against me, the wood of the doorway carving into my back in a rather wonderful way.

His hands are stroking me under my coat and jacket; they are flowing over my sides, my lower back, my stomach, my chest, and I am far too warm now, but I cannot for the life of me break away to get rid of the stupid clothing. The whole world has effectively faded, concentrated only to John's open, hot mouth and wet tongue and his hardness pressed against my hip. I am barely aware of the sounds I make, my breathy voice now inhabiting each exhalation.

“Christ”, John pants against my mouth when he hears this. “You-”

“ _Yes_ ”, I say and I kiss him again. (I want this. God, I want this. I want it all.)

A short and loud signal suddenly makes the world around us come back into shape. John freezes in my arms, and I quickly grab his hands. (Don't.) But he jerks away, sticking one hand into his pocket, coming back with his glowing phone. He takes a small step back ( _John_ ) and swipes across the screen. He blinks hard, refusing to look up at me.

“Mary's coming home.”


	5. Daybreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was writing the last chapter, I listened to a beautiful album of intimate, quiet piano music by Ólafur Arnalds:  
> [Living Room Songs](https://open.spotify.com/album/4zj4920hZrnQHYv4jGeyjp). My favourite piece, as previously stated, gave name to this fic. If you like, you can listen to it while reading to get in the mood!

Door falls shut behind me and I breathe in the damp spring air. Reach out and momentarily put my hand against the yellow stone wall, resting against it with lowered head and closed eyes. Shudder, try to stabilise, raise my head.

A black, quiet, clean car with dark windows. I am too drained to manage getting upset. I simply open the back door and slide into the seat. Anthea does not look up from her phone and the car starts moving.

Just before we leave the block we drive past Mary, walking briskly towards her flat – _their_ flat. She does not see me through the tinted windows. In her world, I do not exist. I was never here, kissing her fiancé until his fingers bored into my skin with desire. In her world, she has nothing to worry about, the supposedly happiest day of her life coming up in two days. She never thinks of Sherlock Holmes, the former friend of her fiancé who played him a cruel trick and was cut out of their lives.

In my world, however, she suddenly occupies every corner of my mind. (Do you kiss her like that?) She is the reason, the very reason I have lost the love of my life forever. This is of course an irrational thought, not at all true; the reason he chose her is because _I_ made a mess of everything. (You said, that night, you said you would rather be with me.) It is not because he loves her more than he loves me (right?). (There is no way you kiss _her_ like that. That was for me only. Right?)

It really does not matter, because he chose her. He will kiss her in front of everyone he knows the day after tomorrow, he will kiss her every day for the rest of his life, while our kiss could just as well have never happened. (Only it _does_ matter. It _did_ happen. You cannot take that from me.)

I cling to the wall when I defeat the seventeen steps. I do not bother taking my coat off before I collapse on the sofa. Lie on my back, close my eyes, steeple my fingers under my chin in a grasp for some familiarity.

“So it didn't go as you'd hoped”, Mycroft says from the window.

“I never hoped”, I say tonelessly.

“Yes. You did.”

Fight to keep my face under control, not to crumble together into itself. “Go ahead, then. _I told you so_ , say it.”

“Not this time.”

“Oh, what now?” I peer up at him briefly, standing beside my desk, gravely looking at me. I close my eyes again. “It's everything you've ever said to me. Don't get involved, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage. Don't you think I know that as well?”

“I did hope things would turn out differently.”

“Well I'm sorry I couldn't be more like you.”

“That is not what I meant, brother dear. You have tried to be like me, and I now know you cannot. I also know you should not.” I suspiciously glance up at him again. He has turned towards the window, staring out with his back in its sadness angle. “Sometimes, Sherlock… I envy you.”

“What?” I almost sit up, but instead I only scowl at his pathetic back. “This is a failure. There's nothing about this to envy.”

“I have this terrible fear, Sherlock, that being able to turn it all off is in fact not a strength. Perhaps love is the greatest advantage, when it comes to it.”

“Well, neither of us will never know.”

“ _I_ certainly won't. But please do not condemn yourself so fast. You are not like me, Sherlock. And I wish you'd never wanted to be.”

I close my eyes again, smoothing my face. “Leave me alone, Mycroft.”

“Yes.” He turns and walks to the door, stopping in front of it. “One more thing-”

“You have upgraded my surveillance.”

“I would know the minute you made the purchase.”

I make a non-committal sound. He lingers in the doorway.

“You want someone here with me on danger nights, as you call them”, I say, keeping my eyes closed, “but _your_ presence would hardly be helpful, which of course you know, so just leave. You have already spoken to Mrs Hudson and she will be here in about forty minutes to force feed me biscuits and not ask about John. I am too sleep-deprived to handle a case which you also know so you haven't called Lestrade. You consider calling Molly but I ask that you don't, because she will definitely ask about John. John himself would previously have been your first choice, his presence always seemed to do the trick is what you're thinking, he would always put his whole life on hold just so ensure I was safe – well surely not even you are so clueless about sentiment that you think you could ask for his assistance now. He is not available and will never be again. I will make the surveillance easy for you and not even leave this flat, although I can't imagine why you'd rather see me in _this_ state than on drugs. Brotherly sadism, perhaps. Now do piss off.”

Mycroft leaves without another word. My chest is heaving violently and I press my eyelids tighter together.

***

I am curled up around myself, embraced by my coat, forehead pressed against the sofa cushions. (I love my coat. I missed it when I was not allowed to wear it for two years. Not for some pretentious reason of wanting to be the legend detective, but because I feel protected in it, I feel warm, I feel like myself and I like it. I like myself when I wear it.)

The 221B living room is filled with my heavy breathing. I might be crying, or perhaps having an anxiety attack. I do not desire to dive into analysing the specific chemicals in my blood. (I love 221B. Or at least I used to, before it became so quiet. I have never felt as much at home as I have felt here, not since I was a child. I have never been as happy as I have been here. As if being Sherlock was a pleasant thing for once in my life.)

I cannot move, I am trapped in a foetal position, I am trapping myself in it. Wonder if I would be able to play the violin when I am shaking this violently. I settle for moving my left hand fingers against my palm, silently playing that tune I composed on the night of my arrival. (I love that tune. It sounds like me. I love making myself sound, and I love the fact that you heard it. That is the Sherlock I want to be, the real Sherlock.)

(I want to be the real Sherlock. Not the calculating machine. Not like Mycroft. Love is ripping me in half, and I still want it.)

The smell of scones enters the flat. Mrs Hudson is baking for me. She is coming up in thirteen minutes. (I love Mrs Hudson. I once told her England would fall without her, and you looked at me with such fondness and surprise. As if you did not dare to believe I could love, and you were so happy to see I could. I do love her, you know. _I_ would fall without her.)

I wish I wanted cocaine right now. I wish I thought that would be enough. But the illusion is broken. Somehow drugs are not real. I did not know there was another kind of high, I did not know the hormones induced by John's kisses would have this consuming effect on my body. Cocaine is nothing in comparison.

John is real and he is capable of holding me and caring about me, and cocaine is only chemicals. If I took it, I know I would not care about that any more. But I want to care.

I want it all to be real.

I am so stupid, claiming my body to be a mere transport for my brain. How utterly arrogant of me. As Mrs Hudson pointed out, I do have a strong habit of indulging in bodily pleasures, only in the form of destructive substances and running. (I love being addicted. I love giving in, I love riding on it without restraining myself. And no drug has ever been as instantly addictive as you turn out to be, John Watson. I want it so badly. I would give up my stupid, brilliant brain to have it, to spend the rest of my days in a room with only you in it, giving my time to nothing other than kissing you and touching you.) I feel like a fool for never trying this before, and like an idiot for claiming that a disinterest in my bodily needs was the reason for it. It was fear that made me stay away. Fear of being rejected, fear of being in love.

Love, marriage, kissing, touching and growing old together; _Mary_. I hate her so fiercely it is ridiculous, I hate her more than Moriarty, which is completely irrational. He was the one who forced me to jump, he forced me to leave, he is the very reason this all has happened. _Her_ biggest crime, as far as I know, is touching John – and it fills me with such white anger I might throw up.

I should have known all along. I hate myself for being this blind, for not recognising this sooner. I was so stubborn, so determined to escape love so I would never have to lie curled up in my sofa, wishing for the agony to actually kill me just so it would all be over. But this was always the way it was going to be, was it not. I met John Watson and I was destined to love.

(I did not know, John, I did not know how it could feel. Even now, even as I lie here feeling my insides being ripped out of my body, I do not regret kissing you. It would be easier not to know how it felt, and still I would not trade the memory for anything. I am irrational and sentimental and stupid – and I want to be. John, for you, I want to be.)

(I do not know what love is. But does anyone, really? I do not understand it, but I do recognise it. I may have pretended not to and I may have fooled myself as well in the process. But now I close my eyes, I feel my chest and I know. This is it. A completely unexplainable cocktail of hormones making my chest swell and ache and flutter, and my body has decided to dedicate them to you, John.)

A quiet knock on the door. I stiffen, force my body to still, hold my breath.

“Hoo-hoo.” Mrs Hudson's voice is soft and she enters the living room, carrying a tray. She puts it gently on the table beside me, gives me one look and wordlessly goes to the kitchen to put a kettle on. I listen to her movements (imagining it is you). My body is turning ice cold inside the coat when I try to keep the anxiety stifled.

When Mrs Hudson comes back I silently sit up; there is no point in refusal, not once she sees my hollowed cheeks and dark eyes. If I comply, she will let me be. She sits on the other end of the sofa, handing me a warm scone and a cup of tea. The cup is burning against my stiff, cold hands, and I cradle them around it in spite of the light pain.

We eat in silence. I do not look at her, and she does not look at me either. The food is like mud in my mouth, but my stomach is screaming for it once I take the first bite. When I am finished, she is silent for a while longer, then she speaks with a determined voice.

“I have turned the wedding invitation down. I did it months ago, I just wanted you to know. I will not sit there and watch that man make a fool of himself in front of everyone, I will not show him any support when he makes the biggest mistake of his life.”

I do not answer, but I look up briefly. She gives me a small smile and gets up. I lie back in the same position as before.

She reaches down and strokes a hand through my hair once, then she picks up her tray and leaves.

My face is suddenly warm and wet with tears, her single affectionate touch unlocking me. I was not crying before, I now know; _this_ is crying. My whole body contorting, warming up from the inside by all the sorrow; loud sobbing impossible to stop; my fingers grasping handfuls of my curls.

(I love you.)

I cry until there is nothing left of me and I drift to sleep.

***

(I love you.) I wake with my heart pounding, for no particular reason other than it being broken. I hate waking up, even though sleeping is so boring. When I wake up, everything is always so disgustingly unchanged from before I fell asleep; I even lie in the same position still. I must have slept a long time, however; the light has changed. The earliest stages of the dawn of a brand new day I am now forced to deal with. (The day before your wedding.) I never sleep for this long without waking, but then I never cry like a child for hours, either.

There is something else different. My eyes fly open when I hear it. A soft sound sighing in the otherwise dead-silent flat. Breathing. For a millisecond I panic, confused at having slept so deeply that I did not hear someone entering. Then I recognise to whom the breathing belongs.

(I love you.)

I quickly turn my head around. John is sitting in his chair (I love you), elbows resting on his knees, hands covering his face. He raises his head slightly when he hears me move, folding his hands together and letting his cheek rest on them as he looks at me.

“I didn't want to wake you”, he says. His voice is hoarse. (Recently woken up? Sleep deprivation? Crying? Yelling?) (I love you.)

I stare at him, impatiently blink the sleep away from my eyes as I try to deduce him. For a second I am afraid he is not real, but then I watch his face more closely and it carries an expression I have never before seen him wear, and I would not have been able to invent it. He is swollen around the eyes, his nose and cheeks are red, his forehead is creased in an unfamiliar way. (Crying. What else?)

(You took a cab here. That does not really tell me much. Something has happened. What?)

(I love you.)

He looks back at me silently, the sad creases on his face deepening. Not the hollow sorrow he has worn since I came back, this sadness is alive. His expressive face is telling of a myriad of emotions, all of them so strong I am not able to single out any of them. I understand nothing. Nothing of this. And I am tired. (I love you.) I cannot suffocate the sun blazing inside me, I cannot stand it any more.

This time I may not survive the fall, but I will walk over the edge anyway.

“I love you.” My voice is deep and unused.

He flinches. Then covers his face with his hands once more. Shoulders softly shaking.

I watch him helplessly. (I want you to look happy when I tell you that.)

John takes a stabilising breath, and when he lets it out he lowers his hands, quickly wiping his cheeks. He rises from his chair and walks across the room. I stare at him when he comes closer, and we lock eyes when he pauses right beside the sofa.

“Make room, please.”

I turn around without breaking our eye contact, stretching my legs and hesitantly pressing my back into the cushions. He puts one knee on the free space beside me and I feel my eyes momentarily widen, met with another flinch in his eyes when he sees it. (What now, John, why are you hurting?) He lowers himself down on the sofa and I do not understand, what is he doing, there is not nearly enough space for the two of us to lie here without touching each other quite extensively. And then his chest is touching mine and his arm is snaking its way around my waist in a way that cannot possibly be a mistake.

My pulse is escalating as I wrap my arms around him. He pushes away the collar of the coat I am still wearing, settling his face against the exposed skin of my neck. I involuntarily close my eyes at the sensation of his warm, damp breath.

He reaches behind him for my right hand and first I am afraid he wants to remove it from his back, but then he grips my wrist. I feel my own pulse against his fingertips, I lie still until he moves on.

His hand travels in under coat and jacket to my solar plexus, fingers stretching out against my hard chest, palm pressing into it through the thin fabric of my shirt. My heart greets his hand with rapid beats.

Next destination is the pulse point on the other side of my neck; I shudder when I feel his skin against mine.

He moves on to my face, letting his fingertips rest against my cheek with the thumb against my mouth, slightly ajar, and I keep still, simply breathing at him.

Then he reaches his hand up into my hair, stroking it, and first I think he is done with his checking of life signs and simply wants to caress me. But then I become aware of how searching his fingers are against the side of my scalp; searching for the fracture he was so sure he saw bleed all over the pavement. I am intact, however, and his hand moves back to my hand, starting the route all over.

Wrist, chest, neck, lips, head. I feel his breathing slowly easing against my skin, and after the fourth repetition his hand stays in my hair, gripping it lightly.

“You're alive”, he murmurs. “God, you're alive.”

“I'm awfully warm”, I tell him. “That gives me away, surely.”

His chest shakes in a silent chuckle. “Well, you live inside a wool coat. It's not made for cuddling.”

Cuddling. I am being cuddled by John Watson. (I had almost forgotten how it feels when we laugh. John, I missed you so much.)

He sits up and I am afraid he is going to leave, but he pushes my coat open and I sit up just enough to slide out of it, removing my jacket as well. He dumps the clothes on the floor behind him, looking at me to see if I will object to his treatment of my most beloved possession, but I am entirely occupied with wondering whether or not we are done with the cuddling now.

We are not. John settles back into my arms, briefly nuzzling his nose against the spot he has found himself at my neck. I let go of a pleased sigh now that I am no longer suffocatingly hot; now that I have John against me through the shirt only. The pressure of his hands stroking my back is concrete, his legs are tangled with mine and I have never even thought one could be this close to another person. Yet it somehow is not close enough, and my heartbeat speeds further when I acknowledge that it is in fact possible to be even closer than this.

Bite my lip. He is getting married tomorrow. I cannot have that. I should not even have this.

He feels my sudden tension and pulls back enough for me to see his face.

“I had a visitor yesterday evening”, he says. “Or did you already know?”

Silently shake my head. (What do you mean? Who…?)

“I'm sorry”, he mumbles, “I shouldn't just assume you can deduce everything about me.” His hand comes up to brush over my cheek. “Mycroft came to me.”

I feel my face take on a mixture of horror and confusion. “Mycroft?” I say and make sure it sounds as close to a curse as possible.

John nods. “Yeah”, he says gravely. “He told me… some things he thought I wanted to know.”

Coldness spreads from inside my chest, and I compose my face to a mask of stillness. “You didn't need to check up on me. I appreciate that you wanted to ensure I am clean despite the hardships that have risen between us, but you don't have to concern yourself with-”

“No”, John interrupts, looking horrified. “That's not- God, I wouldn't come to you if- Sherlock, I wouldn't do that to you!”

I eye him warily. “What did Mycroft tell you?”

John looks into my eyes. Up close, his are extraordinary. An intricate puzzle of blue nuances, deep in the soft light of dawn.

“He told me about that day”, he says quietly. “He told me about Moriarty's plan. About the snipers. How you had no choice but to jump. How you jumped to save my life.” His voice breaks at the end.

Everything is so still.

 _Mycroft_ – acknowledging the damage he did to me. Doing legwork to help me mend it. Stupid bastard, becoming sentimental in his older days. It seems it may even have worked, which is highly provoking.

And maybe enough for me to forgive him.

I stop being careful about my facial features. Drop every act and every shield, allowing John to see. It is even more difficult than expected to do so, but the intense blueness of John's eyes soothes me.

“I didn't want to leave you”, I say. “I would have done anything not to leave you. And I didn't want to trick you. But even as Moriarty died, his network was very much alive, and if they thought for a second my suicide wasn't real, it would have put you in mortal danger. I wanted to tell you, but Mycroft was certain that they were watching you. Your believable grieving was the one thing assuring them I was really dead. Your grief was what kept you alive, and I _need_ you alive, John. I could not take a risk like that.”

He leans back into my embrace, hides his face against my neck.

“I'm sorry I said all those things to you”, he says. “About being a machine and all that. I thought that was one of the last things I ever said to you and I hated myself for it. And I'm sorry about yesterday, what I said-”

He seems unable to continue. (Oh. This is why you are sad. Because I am hurt.)

“That day on the roof, John”, I murmur into his hair. “I was… afraid.” I hear my voice turn unstable, but as humiliating as it feels, I need him to know that it can. “And when I told you I was a fraud, and you didn't believe it for a second even as you heard it from my own mouth… Those tears, John. They were real.”

He grips me tighter.

“I shouldn't have believed the sociopath thing, either”, he says. “I should have known better.”

“Well to be fair”, I say, “I made it difficult for you to believe otherwise with the way I returned. And I- I wasn't ready for-”

“I know. It's okay.”

“I miscalculated the impact this would have on you.”

“Yeah, but that's because you're an idiot.”

He pulls back once again, and I am relieved to see the humour in his eyes. I feel a hesitant start of a smile pull at my mouth.

“And I love you”, he adds, the glow in his eyes increasing.

My smile dies before it can live. “John-” He rubs a thumb at the crease appearing between my eyebrows. “You're getting married”, I manage.

“No. Called it off.”

The flare of hope is so strong that it scares me. I stare at his face, that remarkable, wondrous face.

“You are such a ridiculous arsehole of a man, Sherlock Holmes. And I am completely blown away by how much I love you, no matter what hell you put me through. I don't want to be with anyone but you, Sherlock.” He smiles faintly. “The offer still stands. If you want me, I'm yours. I have always been yours.”

I feel my face twist as if I am crying. I am in no control of the whimpering sounds I make. “I do”, I manage, “I want you-”

His lips shut me up. ( _John-_ )

I am so unpleasant. I am so rude. I am ignorant and an all-round obnoxious arsehole. I never thought someone would ever know me and still love me. I never thought someone would actually see me through all the mess I present. (But you know exactly what I am like. And you love me.)

His lips are even better than I remember. I feel the rush from yesterday start nudging on the corners of my consciousness and I want it again, I desperately want it.

Yet I pull back. (I need you to know.) “John.”

He grazes his lips across my cheekbone, buries his nose in my cheek to nuzzle at it. His hand absent-mindedly goes over the route once more; wrist, chest, neck, lips, head; briefly, lightly.

“John.”

“Hmm.” He inhales through his nose, still pressing against my cheek.

“You should know. I- I've been thinking. About the things.”

He laughs soundlessly. “The things?”

“ _Yes._ You know.”

His lips move to my forehead. “Tell me about the things.”

“Well you said, about being in love since the day after we met, and I was too. Since you shot that cabbie for me. I never knew, but I- was.” He breathes silently against my skin. “I missed you”, I continue. “Every day. Every-”

I cut off, fighting back stupid tears. He strokes my hair, waiting.

“We can't be apart again”, I say fiercely, filling my voice with anger to keep it under control. “Not ever again. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah”, he murmurs.

“No, do you _understand_?”

He chuckles. “I do.”

“About the things, John!”

“Yes, Sherlock, the things!”

“You're laughing”, I exclaim, “but this is important! I _love_ you!”

He stops laughing, but I feel his chest flutter when he tries to hold it back. (You are happy when I tell you that.) “I love you too”, he says. “Are there more things?”

“ _You know!_ ” I snarl, utterly annoyed at having to spell it out for him. “The marrying and kissing and touching and growing old with you. That's the only way, John, because you- you need to stay!”

He tips his head back and looks at me. His eyes are soft. “You want to marry me?”

“Yes, John, I just told you, didn't you hear me?”

I glare at him, but he refuses to stop smiling. “And you, ah… you want to…” He swallows. “I didn't think you… did this.”

“I presume you are referring to sex, John, and no, I formerly _didn't_ _do this_.”

“But you… want to?”

“Well, obviously!” I wave my hands in resignation. “Surely you don't need to be a genius to observe the signs. Don't be stupid, John.”

“Sherlock”, he says with glittering eyes, “you were the one starting this conversation, you can't be angry with me for taking part in it.”

“I am not _angry_ ”, I mutter.

John starts laughing again, an unrestrained flow of wonderful sounds I had thought I would never get to hear again. I cover my face against his chest to hide my helpless smile, bury myself deeper in him,wanting to know what his laughter feels like.

“You are so sweet”, he chimes.

“I am not _sweet!_ ” I protest, biting at his collarbone to prove it. This action gets an unpredicted reaction, however; his breath hitches and his laughter stops. I curiously move to his neck, alternating between kissing it and grazing my teeth against his skin, cataloguing the way his breathing changes. He lies deliberately still, and I am smug at the realisation that he tries not to roll his hips against me.

When I get back to his lips they have become softer than before, more pliable, welcoming.I grip the back of his head (your hair is soft and clean) and impatiently coax his mouth open (I cannot wait any more, John, I want to feel it again). He makes a humming sound when his lips part and my blood starts singing in my veins.

He tries to hold back, I can tell; he tries to take it slow. I am not at all interested in slow. I want to be swept away, I want to be consumed by the drug that is John Watson.

John is so real in my arms. I never knew there were gradients to existence, I thought it was a binary thing. Real or not real. Trust John Watson to defy all logic, to be _more_ real than anything I have encountered. His steady warmth, his glorious mouth, the scent of him filling my head and making it foggy, the erection against my hip that gives him away (you do not want slow, John). His love for me is so real I can almost touch it.

Nothing I know about the world can explain it. Chemicals, yes, but that is an unsatisfactory explanation standing on its own. Exchange John for another man and I would possibly be aroused, yes, but I would not become dizzy and irrational at the softest of his touches, and I would not wish to crawl in under his skin and stay there forever. Those feelings are for John only, which makes no sense from an objective point of view – because apparently not every human being is in love with John Watson, however preposterous this may sound. Yet my puzzlement over this does not frustrate me. This is a mystery I do not wish to solve, put behind me and move on to the next one. I only want to float in it, I want to keep it as my own and live it for the rest of my life.

And I want it all at once. I am not sure what I want exactly, but I am entirely done waiting for it. The ever rising urgency in my groin makes my fingers grip restlessly in his hair and his shirt. (Please John, I want-) I make a frustrated sound when he refuses to slip his tongue into my mouth, and I learn the effect that kind of sound has on John. He moans and his legs fold tighter around one of mine, pressing us closer together, and his mouth gives in (finally).

All of a sudden I have a whole new version of John Watson above me, pinning me in place against the cushions. It feels as if he blows a fuse in my brain, I hardly know what happens any more, I do not know what I am doing. I feel paralysed, trapped between the urge to draw back in fear of what it will do to me to give in, and the instinct to not stop, not even for a second, not _ever_. My blood is buzzing as if I am on a dangerous chase through the London night.

I normally hate lack of control (but with you I love it. You can have it, you can have it all).

My senses start behaving unpredictably; I am acutely aware of his every touch, but my vision is unfocused when I try to keep my eyes open – and fail –and I barely hear anything. The sounds come to me as if from the other side of a wall.

I should mind this, but I do not. (Carry me away. Make it all go away.)

The flat is quiet. I vaguely notice that those sounds I do hear are coming from me, once again emerging every time I exhale.

John ends the kiss.

“ _No_ ”, I involuntarily gasp, trying to capture his mouth.

“You need to remember breathing”, he pants against my cheek.

“Breathing is _boring_ ”, I growl, twisting my neck so I can kiss him again.

He barely stifles a groan and deepens the kiss. “You're so fucking hot”, he breathes into my mouth.

I hear myself moan loudly in response, my hips rolling forward. I inhale, amazed by how his words can make my body over-ride every ounce of control I had over it. And then he shifts his hips and his erection touches mine.

My lips go still, my mouth hanging open against his, the air from his breath filling my lungs. Our hearts beat frantically against each other, roaring in my ears. Nothing moves, yet the sensations rush through me, so strong I can barely bear it. Open my eyes (your eyelids are closed). Everything has suddenly shifted in a way I cannot explain. We are in 221B, the living room is precisely the same, known, mundane. But in it are John and I, sealed off in a separate world only we have access to, absorbed by a high unlike anything I have experienced. If he moves his hips at all, I will become completely undone.

I keep as still as I can, feeling utterly helpless trying to harbour the love I feel for this man.

“I think I've found another life sign”, he mumbles against my lips.

“Hmm.” I try to sound mischievous, but it comes out closer to desperate. “Maybe you should check it, to be sure.”

He chuckles but I am too out of breath to join him. He shifts gently away, making room for his hand between us, and when he touches me my eyes fall shut and the air stops flowing altogether, my mouth gaping but no air moving through it.

There is nothing else left in the world. (Only _you_ -)

He moves his hand over me through the thin fabric of my pants and my whole body is flowing. (John-)

His mouth is still hovering above mine and I breathe against it in irregular beats. (More-)

I think he whispers things now but I cannot hear them, I may whisper things as well ( _Oh-_ )

( _I'm-_ )

( _God-_ )

( _John-_ )

I may be shouting-

-I am falling-

-only this time falling means flying.

When I become aware again, I do not know how long I was high. The clock inside my brain that constantly ticks seconds to chart and analyse, was for a rare moment disabled. Extraordinary.

John's hand is in my hair, gently playing with the curls (you like my hair). He has drawn back his head (you were watching me).

Keep my eyes closed. I think there will be a new world waiting for me when I open them again. Too overwhelmed to take it in just yet. Want to stay afloat in between for a moment. (Stay with me.)

John's hand stays in my hair, affectionate, present. “Yep, you are definitely alive”, he says (you enjoy seeing me like this). I can imagine his smile, I know which one accompanies that particular voice; small, warm – loving.

“Yes”, I manage. I am alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are, once more, links to the two songs inspiring this work: 
> 
> [Om aftonen](https://open.spotify.com/track/5u6C4KPxrw6phPH6fJfF6m)   
>  [Tomorrow's Song](https://open.spotify.com/track/3Cf47MOQsa3ijid90gr5Io)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Tomorrow's Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14356761) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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